


The Man in Question

by Peapods



Series: 008 [1]
Category: Casino Royale (2006), Pundit RPF
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 58,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peapods/pseuds/Peapods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson Cooper leads a double life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Next in Line

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains violence, sex, torture, and psychological issues. A warning for torture will be at the top of relevant chapters.

Anderson looked down at the file folder in his hand and fell silent. He looked up at his section chief.

"This is a wet operation," he said matter-of-factly.

"That would be its logical conclusion," M said. The older woman was looking at him without any remorse.

"I've--I don't do wet operations," he said.

"You do now," her British voice was hard and uncompromising. "We've allowed you leeway given your other chosen profession, but quite frankly you're one of the best agents we have. I can't afford to be wasting you on assignments any lesser agent could accomplish." She gave him an almost warm smile. "Congratulations, Cooper, you've been promoted to 008."

Anderson was taken aback. He knew he was good. They needed him so they let him do the news things as long as he got away to do his necessary operations. To be told that that was no longer an option was startling. To be given his 'license to kill' was even more surprising.

"I've been in this business for over twenty years," he said. "Why now?"

"This particular mark requires... a fine-tuned edge. I would assign one of the other Double-Os, but the only one I trust to get the job done has no taste for the finesse I need from you."

Anderson rolled the file folder in his hands and sighed.

"I need you to listen, Cooper." He looked up into steel grey eyes that promised no-nonsense. "You've taken an oath with us. An oath entirely contradictory to your allegiance to your birth country. You've done your job efficiently and successfully since joining us. I am very well aware that this will be your first premeditated kill, but I believe you have the stones to pull it off. You've no ego to get in the way and you have a life, one that you'd like to see preserved."

"Ma'am, I thought we decided I shouldn't go on these sorts of assignments _because_ of my other life."

"Did you look closely at your file?" she asked and Anderson opened it back up again, reading more intently. He saw the target and froze.

"Seriously?" he asked dully.

"We've allowed your country discretion on this matter. Too much, some would argue, though our own budget cuts did not help matters. You're now embroiled in a war with little sign of an end and you still have not achieved your primary objective."

"This information is solid?"

"Of course not, but it is more than we have had for a very long time. Without their leaders these desperate men will lose focus, will lose their direction. Your country has fooled around with the lieutenants for too long. We propose a different approach."

"You want me to get the money," Anderson surmised. It made sense. Without money the terrorist cells that gave the U.S. so many problems would be little more than feckless thugs playing at international intrigue.

"We don't want you to kill them, when you find them. We need to question them."

"So, you're asking for the money first and bin Laden second?"

"It is the most straightforward way of getting to the man in question."

"You don't ask for much, do you, ma'am?" Anderson asked, getting to his feet. "One more question. I haven't made my requisite two kills, how am I being promoted?"

"Do you see the first two names under bin Laden's?" she asked. He looked down: a section chief in Turkey and a double-crossing agent who'd been working for him. Extremely common. Apparently, MI-6 had serious problems with section chiefs outside England. "Those are your first two kills. They shouldn't be difficult."

He didn't ask for any more information. He would be able to put together his task as he saw fit or it would ready for him in the briefing before he left. In the meantime, he had a broadcast to be getting back to.

"We're here live from London, England where the meeting between Presi...."

*****

Getting the time off to take the mission wasn't difficult. His producers were always telling him he needed to take a vacation and they wanted Erica to have her chance at the anchor chair for a while. Anderson would also be submitting audio reports when he could. He asked for two months, hoping it wouldn't take longer than that. If it did he'd have to fake hospitalization. He broke out his best suits and tuxedo along with more casual wear. One never knew where this kind of mission would take him.

He should have known it would come to this. Didn't Anderson complain all the time to M that his government wasn't doing everything it could to find Osama bin Laden? He had been stunned when, instead of putting him on the assignment immediately, they had told Anderson to go back to the news. Every time he'd travelled he'd done short missions for MI-6, but never anything this extensive. Never a part one mission with an option on part two.

Getting into the spy business had never been a decision he'd regretted. In earlier times it had been the perfect job, the perfect receptacle for all the pain of his childhood and adolescence. The C.I.A. hadn't panned out, they wanted to put him on a desk and bury him in Africa. A chance meeting with the head of the agency put him into the sights of MI-6. She had come to him not a few months after that chance meeting and offered to train him. Double-O status would be the eventual outcome, she told him. He hadn't believed it and over twenty years he was never promoted to Double-O.

_"Your problem, Cooper, is that you are almost too dispassionate. You would be the perfect killer, but you would lose your humanity in the process." _

M had told him that seven years ago. Katrina had been his breakthrough, he realized. He had been inured to human suffering, knew he would feel little compunction causing it. Katrina had been the high sign that he wasn't completely deadened inside, that he could do this job without becoming just a machine with a gun.

He dyed his hair and eyebrows an unremarkable brown--dark as it had been in his youth--and put in dark, bottle green contact lenses. He had skipped his hair appointment and even now it was looking longer, taking on its trademark wave of yesteryear. Looking into the mirror he hardly recognized himself. He always did this on longer assignments, but since the stint at CNN had begun he hadn't had any longer assignments. In those cases he just wore a wool hat. One last look at his reflection and he determined that there was little else he could do to hide his appearance. It was unlikely that those he came in contact with would recognize him. He could pass those that queried with deja vu. Or an introduction to the barrel of his silencer.

As he was on the phone with his dog sitter he was startled by someone knocking on his door. He quickly terminated the conversation and hung up the phone as the knocking came again. It was unlikely that the person on the other side of the door was any threat to Anderson, but on the eve of an operation like this one he couldn't help but be cautious.

"Come on, Cooper, I know you're in there. I can hear you emoting!" Came a strident, deep voice. Anderson rolled his eyes. Of _course_ Keith Olbermann would show up at his apartment the night before Anderson had to go kill a terrorist mastermind and likely several royal family members.

"Yes, and right now I'm emoting my extreme annoyance. What do you want, Olbermann?" he asked through the door.

"Open up."

"No," Anderson said in a somewhat offended tone of voice.

"Listen, I know we hate each other. Or at least offend each other on a fairly regular basis, but I need to have this conversation with you face to face." Anderson sighed, then rolled his eyes and popped the locks.

Keith came in, took one look at him, and burst into peals of laughter. Anderson only crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. When the other man had calmed down he crossed the hall to the kitchen.

"You done?"

"What in God's name possessed you to do that to yourself?" Keith asked, as he followed him into the kitchen.

"Halloween party," Anderson said sarcastically. "It's really none of your business, but I'm going traveling and I need to be inconspicuous."

"Inconspicuous is one thing, ridiculous is another," Keith said.

"Did you just come here to insult me? Or was there purpose to your impromptu visit?" Anderson asked. Christ, no one could annoy him faster or more than this man.

"Listen, we're not friends, I get that, but we both happen to be friends with Jon Stewart. Stephen wants to give him a surprise party and I, somehow, got dragged into helping plan it. Only, I know shit about how to throw a party for anyone," Keith said. "So, I came to you."

"When is this party?" Anderson asked.

"A month from now," Keith said.

"I can give you some numbers, but I'm going to be out of the country for at least two months," he said, opening the drawer with all his address books. He pulled out a slim blue book and tossed it to the older man. "Everything is labeled, there are even a few editorial comments that should help you pick what's appropriate."

"So, I should ignore the male strippers?" Keith jibed and Anderson sent him a dark look.

"You know, those jokes stopped being funny a few years ago," Anderson told him, recalling their brief friendship in 2001. For some reason, which Anderson could never figure out and Keith could never adequately explain, the older man was inordinately obsessed with Anderson's sexuality. When Keith's barbs started stinging a little too often Anderson had told him, in no uncertain terms, that friendship between them was over. He had regretted that it had come down to that, but didn't want to put up with Keith's abrasive tongue.

Plus, he was a nosy bitch.

"Sorry," Keith said, looking genuinely remorseful. "Where are you going on vacation?" he asked, obviously trying to make amends.

"I'm not sure yet. I'm flying into London, I'll decide from there where would be the best place." Obviously, he couldn't tell Keith that he would be taking the next flight to Istanbul.

"You don't even know where you're going to vacation?" Keith was holding back from saying what he really wanted to say, Anderson could tell.

"Yes, Keith, I have _that_ much disposable income. As you're so keen on pointing out, I am basically Bruce Wayne," Anderson said sarcastically.

"Yeah, well," Keith said uncomfortably, going to the door. "Have fun, I guess."

"Thanks."


	2. Forget How To Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson Cooper leads a double life. He's not the only one.

Christiane met him at Heathrow airport, looking smart and fresh in a cream pantsuit. "Double O status, then? Congratulations," she told him as he stepped up to her.

"Don't congratulate me prematurely," Anderson said with a smile. "I'm only supposed to bring down a world wide terrorist network before the end of business." They shared another smile as they left the airport for the car M had sent.

Anderson had traveled under an assumed name, with a different passport. He didn't take any weapons. M would provide him with everything he would need. He really wasn't well known enough to be recognized, especially out of the country. Every once in awhile, someone would look twice, brow furrowed. But Anderson knew without his trademark white hair he was little more than a skinny, pale guy. Attractive, but not striking.

Christiane would be a kind of handler for Anderson on this mission. For the most part Double Os, or so he'd been trained, worked on their own, checking in with M or her assistant, Villiers, whenever they needed guidance. But this particular mission would require greater communication with the organization. Christiane would be in nearby Istanbul, ready to lend a hand. He hadn't known she was with the organization for years. He had known who she was from her journalistic work, of course, but it hadn't been until a mission in Iraq in 2003 that he found out she was also MI-6. He wouldn't trust many others to have his back like Christiane. She knew, literally, everybody and would be able to set up meetings from afar as his "organization". She would make sure Anderson looked legit in the meetings ahead.

Entering M's office later that afternoon he was somewhat surprised to see another man sitting across from his boss. He took the other seat, Christiane had already had her meeting with M and was getting her technology briefing, and crossed his legs.

"Ah, Cooper, this is James Bond, Double-O seven," M introduced. "Bond, this is Anderson Cooper, newly Double-O eight."

The two men exchanged nods and turned back to M. She shuffled through folders, finally handing each of them a blue folder. Flipping it open, Anderson saw his travel destinations, his contacts and his alias. He closed it, waiting for M to continue.

"Cooper, Bond will be also be working the case. You'll be point man in the Middle East and will still follow through with the second part of the mission. Bond will be in the area to support you should things go awry," she told him. Cooper surreptitiously examined Bond. The man was maybe his height, or a little taller, with close cropped blond hair and a rugged appearance. He was wearing a three piece suit that suited him very fine indeed, but seemed to be smirking with his eyes, which were a cold blue.

"Bond, you will be the definition of shadow here. You may have contact with Cooper, and indeed from the sidelines you may notice things that Cooper can not, but you are to interact with none of the targets until the end of the mission."

"Mum," Bond agreed with a little nod of his head.

"Cooper, it isn't necessary to keep Bond apprised of everything, but I suggest it anyway." Anderson nodded, seeing the wisdom there. Their followers may be ragtag, but the leaders of terrorism would not be quite so obvious. To have someone with a more outside view--not to mention someone who could take over should things go south for Anderson--would be the best thing.

"You have your orders, gentlemen. Cooper, you're due for a technology briefing. Good day," she said, turning her head down to her work. In the outer office the two Double-O agents regarded each other warily. They would need to trust one another. Anderson could see Villiers flicking looks at them even as he typed steadily on his computer. Anderson finally left the office, dress shoes clicking on the marble hallway floor.

"A little green to be put on such a case," came Bond's voice from behind. It was cultured but full of derision.

"Maybe the kill is new, but otherwise it's nothing I haven't done before," Anderson told him as he sidled up beside him, keeping pace. "I've been at this since I graduated college."

"Must be difficult maintaining your double life," now Bond only sounded curious.

"You're a big watcher of American news?" Anderson asked skeptically.

"I make it a point to keep my eye on things. I hacked yours and Christiane's files a few years ago."

Anderson looked at him incredulously. "How did you know to look for my file in the first place?" Bond just smirked irritatingly and shrugged.

"Lucky guess." Anderson rolled his eyes. They walked in silence, rode the elevator in silence, and when they reached the labs, Bond grabbed his arm and pulled him easily back. Anderson was startled and pulled a move that brought him closer but with the benefit of breaking Bond's grasp. Being this close to the man was a little intimidating. A little intoxicating. Bond smelled very good.

"I do believe I will enjoy this mission quite a bit more than usual," Bond murmured before stepping away. He didn't look as affected as Anderson felt, but Anderson had long ago learned how to read people. The answer was in blue eyes, no longer quite as cold as they'd been before.

*****

Separate flights put Anderson in Istanbul hours before Christiane and Bond. The bent agent was easy to find. He had simply made a phone call. The man had met him for a drink in a hotel bar far from Anderson's. A suggestive eyebrow and a hand on the man's leg put them in a hotel room. Anderson thought about simply killing him right then, but the man _was_ attractive. He gave the man a blow-job and then fucked him bent over a counter in the bathroom. After his climax he slipped the gun from his ankle holster into his hand, stepped back and shot the man square in the forehead. He cleaned up easily, tossing the man into the black sheets before he could bleed all over everything. He drug the body out onto the balcony and called for a clean-up crew. He redressed and walked out, heading for MI-6 Middle Eastern headquarters.

The whole thing had taken about two hours.

MI-6 Headquarters in the Middle East had become one of the most important centers of business in the region, maybe in the world. They were responsible for filtering information back to England, who disseminated it to other pertinent agencies. The head of this branch, Aaron Price, was a former Double-O who had been involved in some of the most well known missions in the Middle East, including the Iranian Revolution and the bombings in Beirut. Officially, he had been gathering information on these things. Unofficially, Price had been helping terrorists in the region since 1975. Discrepancies--and his utter incompetence--had finally convinced the agency that perhaps something was bent. The Section Chiefs home was an adjunct of the office.

Anderson didn't take the front entrance to the apartment building. He found a backdoor and slipped in easily. A few flights of stairs and he was sauntering down a darkened hallway into the penthouse elevator, shoes squeaking on tile. In Price's home, he quickly cracked the safe, carefully hidden behind an original Cassat, and pulled out all the documents that would prove Price's collusion with terrorists and the governments that supported them. A flash drive went into the computer and all the files were copied and the hard drive wiped. A quick rifling through his desk, and other areas close to the penthouse's entrance, found three guns which Anderson stripped, pocketing the clips. He heard the elevator ding and smirked.

He lowered himself into the desk chair, facing the window, angled so that he could see Price alighting from the elevator but Price couldn't see his reflection. The lights clicked on and Anderson spun the chair, silenced gun pointed out at the startled chief.

"I'd be all righteously angry at your complicity in terrorist activities, but since it has earned me my promotion I can't find it in me to be too angry," Anderson said, still smirking.

"Double-O then, Anderson. Congratulations. I suppose you got to Butler first?"

"Great lay, not all that bright," Anderson said with a mocking look of pity.

Price himself smirked. "Funny, I never took you as the sort to engage in witty repartee with a nemesis."

Anderson fired the gun and the man dropped to the floor. He rose, stowing the gun in his holster before walking to the dying section chief. "If you were actually my nemesis, that would have been a pathetic bit of repartee, indeed." With that he hit the elevator button and left the man to his death.

*****

In his hotel room, showered and dressed in a terry-cloth robe, he loaded the flash drive and began sorting through the files. What he needed was nicely headed under "Finances." There, he found a list of names of those government officials and members of various terrorist organizations that had given the chief money to keep his silence or feed MI-6 faulty information. Except for a gap from December 2003 to April 2004--there was a note "_a warning about Saddam Hussein_" beside this period--there was a steady flow of cash into Price's pocket.

He sent the evidence through secure email, with the assurance that he had fulfilled his two kills, to M's office and packaged the rest to be sent express the next day. In bed, listening to the sounds of one of the most modern cities in the Middle East, he thought back on his day. He had been trained to perform those missions. It had been the result of twenty years of preparation and Anderson wasn't having the existential crisis he thought he might have. Consciously, he knew it was a result of his training and careful psychological priming. Unconsciously, he wondered whether there was more to the choosing of Double-Os than simply being the best, than simply having the training.

Killing people shouldn't be taken so lightly.

But he awoke the next day without feeling any different than thousands of other days. He dressed immaculately in a long sleeved white dress shirt and grey slacks, a white Panama hat to shield his eyes from the sun, readying to meet Christiane and Bond. He sent off his package and made his way to a small cafe that catered to Europeans tourists. The other two agents were already there, giving their coffee orders. Anderson sat, removing his hat, and tacked on his order for a glass of juice.

"Success?" Bond said with a small smile.

"Yes. And some information that'll help us out," Anderson said. "Names and money amounts, though locations are unsurprisingly absent on those men closely tied to the terrorist cells."

Their plan was for Anderson to join these men with an offer of money--or rather the judicious handling and disseminating of it. MI-6 had been spending the past year "creating" the organization. Not only feeding false information to Aaron Price about a new terrorist support organization, but having several other agents pose as "accountants" and still others as guns for hire. Price's records assured him that neither the global terrorist networks nor their money lenders had seen through the ruse. MI-6 had recruited plenty of their own guns for hire in the networks. Anderson's involvement would be the culmination of this year long venture.

"We've a team here in Turkey ready to pose as the organization. Whenever you need one of them, you need only call. Your alias is as the head of the organization, Anderson. Bond, I'm reassigning you to be his right hand man. They won't believe that he has traveled alone. M thought for me to put another agent on the case, but I think a Double-O would be more prudent. These men are not shy with the trigger and they will turn on you at the slightest appearance that you aren't what you say you are," Christiane told them as they buttered pastries and spoke in hushed tones.

"What exactly are they expecting?" Anderson asked.

"They are expecting rich and cold, which I'm sure will be no problem from you. You are a bank and a corporation, Anderson, not a true believer. You are looking for a return on your investment, not an ideological reworking of the world," Christiane said. "The groundwork has been laid and they are looking to meet the man who will have ultimate power over their money and the application of it."

Anderson was not a middleman money manager like Le Chiffre then, he thought, eyes skipping to Bond. He was the one providing the accountants.

"We have accounts set up in Zurich, among others, that you will transfer the money to. You must gain as much of their trust as you can. Only then will you get a reasonable amount for them to feel the need to give us their information."

"And then what? We return their money with a slap on the wrist?"

"For all I know, we're planning another round of colonial takeover, Anderson. Those details haven't been given to me. We have our objective. Once the money lenders are in our power we can obtain the information needed to go after the perpetrators. That is your primary objective."

*****

"You know, for someone who claims _not_ to have an opinion, you do a startlingly accurate impression of someone who does," said Bond's voice from behind as Anderson stepped out onto the busy street. Christiane had left earlier, finished with breakfast and needing to brief the team. Anderson and Bond had spent another twenty minutes chatting innocuously about American and British politics.

"I've never said I don't have an opinion," Anderson countered with a grin, swinging his hat precariously from his fingers. "When I'm on the news, I'm there to report the news, not my opinion of the news. People are smart enough to form their own opinions, even if personally I don't agree with those opinions. When I'm acting as an agent, I complete the missions assigned to me regardless of any ideological objections I might have."

Bond looked at him, an interested glint in his eyes. "And your objection to simply withholding money until we receive the information we require?"

"We wipe out one terrorist group, or their leaders, and more will simply spring up in place. Withholding the money indefinitely would be a smarter move, but I'm not even sure of the legalities of that move. Ideology is too strong to be shoved aside by eliminating the top man."

"And what makes you think these governments and wealthy war profiteers aren't as mercenary as you'll pretend to be?" Bond asked. Anderson stopped in the street and regarded Bond. He wondered whether the agent was only acting as Devil's Advocate or whether Anderson had missed sincerely missed the point.

"Why would they support terrorism if they didn't believe in it?"

"Terrorism turns a profit," Bond said simply. "You know the case of Le Chiffre?" Anderson nodded. "Same thing. There are those who are true believers. There are those who get their money and political support from true believers. But in the end, for most, it's all about power. Money equals power and men will do what is necessary to keep both." Bond quirked a smile. "Comforting, isn't it? I believe something of the same kind of system works in all countries." And with that he continued his saunter down the road.

Anderson followed and most certainly did not stare at his perfect ass.


	3. Dance Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No terrorist mastermind works alone.

Three more days in Istanbul were enough for Anderson to be thoroughly apprised of his role in the charade. He had been fitted for and gotten four new suits of the highest cut. A product had been bought for his hair, which would remain longer than usual, but brushed back. His tuxedo was tailored--no simple black suit for Agent Cooper--and shoes shined. He had Bond call the Agency to secure an Aston Martin at the King Abdulaziz International Airport for their use. Bond would remain in his own suits, high end, but nowhere near the quality of Anderson's. Plenty of hair dye--it wouldn't do to start sprouting his trademark white in the middle of negotiations--and contact lenses were packed into hidden zippers. His arsenal would be included in the car.

Anderson had come to a kind of peace with himself over the mission. He had told Bond that his opinions had no bearing on a mission, but he needed to walk into this one and be satisfied with the intended outcome. Removing the money and taking out bin Laden would not put an end to radical Islam or terrorism. The C.I.A and MI-6 had no power to reverse that trend, only governments did. The United States had sponsored the mujahideen in Afghanistan that put the Taliban in power; the Saudi government promoted radical Islamic education programs and yet his government counted that country among its strongest allies in the Middle East; the United States' stance on Israel was not a big help either.

Anderson, Bond, and M could not change these things. They could only remove immediate threats, like the charismatic leader that many Islamist radicals looked to for his skill in applying generally accepted religious tenets to current political and social issues. Though there had been attempts to discredit bin Laden, they had not removed the man's claws from the psyche of the people. They could only move the governments and other organizations into a checked position, depriving the men of the money they supplied. But they could still be easily outmaneuvered. The fundamental anger would still remain and it might be that a hundred others would spring up in the place of those they took out now.

He was seated in first class with Bond, on their way to the airport outside Amman, Jordan. From there they would catch a flight to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. There, they would meet their first contacts, including those inside the International Organization of Islamic Banks. Their concern, most obviously, would be money over ideology. MI-6 intended to use that to their advantage.

"There are several ways we could play this," Bond started, his lips so close to Anderson's ear that heat coiled in his belly.

"What, exactly, are you referring to?" Anderson asked, turning his head, playing the game. If any of the other passengers were looking they could not be mistaken for anything other than lovers.

"Our 'relationship'," Bond smirked. "They'll be uptight berks, and I think it might be quite something to give them a show."

"Suggesting that they need us so badly they'll have to put up with our... 'proclivities'?" Anderson asked, catching on.

"Nothing overt, you understand," Bond murmured, still smiling smugly.

"Of course not," Anderson said quietly. He tilted his head as though to kiss Bond, noting the other man doing the same, but pulled back at the last moment. "Wouldn't want it to be _too_ obvious." With that he turned back to his book, allowing a quirk of a smile he could see Bond returning.

*****

Jeddah was one of the wealthiest cities in the Middle East and home to a cosmopolitan view that did not gel with the average American's understanding of the region. There was a misunderstanding that Islam was somehow synonymous with 'backward'. Or perhaps that whole "Fertile Crescent" part of the story of ancient civilization hadn't sunk in. They had successfully built around the remnants of the old city, preserving what they could. Several art projects had been undertaken over the years, and were the citizens white and the shifting desert invisible from the city, one could have mistaken it for a Western metropolis. After the fashion of white businessmen in the Middle East Anderson and Bond checked into a resort geared towards tourists. Durrat Al-Arus had its own golf courses, amusement parks, and even protected the seaboard and corals off their property.

"Checking in, reservation under Bristow," Anderson said, affecting a slightly British accent. His credentials as the head of a kind of multi-national bank indicated that he traveled a great deal and so had picked up a slight British accent. Anderson imagined he sounded something like his mother.

"Here you are, sir," said the concierge, handing him the key. "Oh, and this was left for you," he said handing him a slim manila folder. He passed it off to Bond without looking and proceeded to the elevator. Their suite had two bedrooms and Anderson had to smirk at the thought of Bond actually respecting the door between them. He halfway hoped he didn't.

"Last minute instructions," Bond said scanning the documents. "A few contacts they've come across that might be of use to us. And this," he fished out a black signet ring that had a "V" set deep into the stone.

"My family's ring," Anderson said, plucking the ring out of Bond's fingers and slipping it on the middle finger of his right hand. M must have called his mother for it, though he couldn't discern why.

"Hmm, apparently your being from an old family lends you more legitimacy," Bond read.

"Not that old," Anderson protested.

"Yes, but one that managed to practically control the world in a few short years and earn more money than half their governments combined. It will lend credence to your "out of nowhere" appearance."

"So, I'm to keep to the Vanderbilt name?"

"Yes, a cousin of some sort. I suppose if you're recognized you can pass it off that way. Clever thinking," Bond said.

Yes, Anderson supposed that was clever thinking. He might have gotten his looks from his father, but most of the world didn't know that. Another reason he'd been chosen for the mission. MI-6 agents were never from the best families. If they were, they were almost inevitably assigned desk jobs and never ever Double-O status. Anderson was unique.

In their rooms Anderson began unpacking immediately, hanging up suits and dinner jackets. He had pulled off his white shirt. It wasn't _exactly_ soaked through with sweat, but it was no longer fresh. He strode to the wardrobe, enjoying the air conditioning.

"I imagine that build raises a few questions on the newsroom floor," came Bond's voice. Anderson turned to see him lounging in the doorway, unabashedly admiring. Anderson allowed himself a smile.

"Mostly they attribute it to vanity. Or the desire to fit my suits and t-shirts better," he joked. With an utterly graceful movement, Bond launched himself off the jamb and walked--slunk was more accurate--over to Anderson, stopping just in front of him.

"You've few scars," he murmured and Anderson sucked in a breath as the back of his slightly callused fingers slid down the middle of his chest.

"You're not looking in the right places," Anderson countered lowly. He knew despite his success with his first two kills and twenty years experience that Bond still thought of him as a green boy with a prime assignment he didn't deserve.

"Your psyche?" Bond asked with a derisive curl to his lips.

"My legs," Anderson countered. That had been a... less than entirely pleasant experience. Falling through three floors of glass was not something he recommended to anyone. He had been wearing a pair of shorts, thankfully fully covered to his neck. He'd thrown his arms over his face and his legs had taken the brunt of the punishment. There were other scars too, but he was so pale one had to know where they were to see them.

"You'll burn in all this sun," Bond said, moving, it seemed, even closer. The heat of their bodies was warming the air between them to sweltering. Bond's hands, hanging by his side after the short caress, came up to cup the space between hip and rib. Anderson let his eyes close involuntarily.

He opened his eyes, locking them on icy blues. "I'll manage," he said before pulling away, shivering as Bond's fingertips slid over his skin. He turned back to his wardrobe and fished a short sleeved black button up. Tucking it into grey pants he turned back to Bond, having regained his equilibrium.

"I believe we have a meeting," and with that he grabbed his room key and strode out the door, confident that Bond was behind him.

*****

Raisa Vertinskaya was a formidable looking woman. Though in her fifties, she still had inky black hair. Her face was utterly devoid of signs of age, the benefits of thousands of dollars worth of cosmetic procedures. Simple when one was one of the richest women in the world. She met Anderson and Bond on an enclosed patio full of exotic plants and a reflecting pool. She was statuesque and had a hard look about her.

"Well, at least you look the part," she said in accented English as she shook Anderson's hand. "I was worried they would send some sad looking man who would fit in better at a tavern than a boardroom." She shook Bond's hand as well before gesturing them into seats around a table. Cocktails were brought out before conversation could start and Anderson relished the vodka cocktail. Vertinskaya downed half her drink before smiling at the two men.

"I'll have to thank our boss for sending me such handsome men. The species here is... lacking," she said, red lips parting on blinding white teeth.

"Not to skip too hastily to business," Anderson said with his most charming smile. "But everything is in order, correct?" The smile paid off as the woman leaned forward and topped off Anderson's glass, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Your introduction has been made," she said. "They are eager to meet you."

Raisa Vertinskaya was the head of the group that handled many of the finances of the terrorist ring. More accurately, she was the former head. An offer from MI-6 when she had been looking to retire with a hefty sum had delivered a wealth of information and the kind of legitimacy a few doctored accounts couldn't. She had gone to her customers when she had decided to get out of the game and had suggested the phony organization as the perfect place to transfer their funds. She'd dispatched her own accountants to work independently or find new consortia and the agents had seen the suitcases and other boxes covering the house when they'd entered. She was looking to make a clean break.

"These men are not fools," she told them. "They support foolish endeavors, but they themselves are not the garden variety terrorists who blow themselves up for God and country. Islam is their tool of hegemony, but it is not their religion. My retreating from the business is the only reason you have this opportunity." Her immaculately manicured finger ran along the edge of her glass. The warning was clear in her voice. Though she'd been promised immunity she would not hesitate to sell them out if her interests were threatened.

"We know that, Ms. Vertinskaya," Anderson said with a nod.

"Call me Raisa," she said, pearly white flashing again.

"Raisa," he acknowledged with his own smile. "When can we expect to be in contact with them?"

"They will be in Jeddah in a few days. A few have business with the Organization of the Islamic Conference. I will meet with them first to set up a meeting. That will be Friday. Saturday we will meet them at a place of their choosing. They will examine the state of your finances, which they should have no problem with."

She stood, and they took that as their cue to go.

"Enjoy the night life, boys, you have a few days before things get complicated," she said before leaving them. A look at Bond only elicited a raised eyebrow. He downed the rest of his drink, watching Bond do the same, and made his way out into the punishing Saudi Arabian heat.

*****

"'Enjoy the night life.' I rather like the sound of that," Bond said to him as they reentered the hotel.

"I'm sure she meant the theater or the restaurants, Bond," Anderson said, though he let innuendo slip into his tone as well. In the elevator he stood too close to Bond, letting the smell of his aftershave and expensive cologne cover him, knowing the same was happening to Bond.

Bond, though a consummate seducer to be sure, didn't have the experience Anderson had with men. He had read the other man's file and besides one or two trysts on missions, the other man had not pursued males. Anderson was nearly the opposite, though the types of missions he'd been assigned before had not necessitated the amount of seduction Bond was used to. Therefore Anderson knew he had the upper hand here. He could pull Bond along as far as he wanted to, or he could jump him at any moment. The agent seemed to be respecting that the ball was entirely in Anderson's court.

Off the elevator they entered the common room instead of either of their bedrooms. Bond, upon entering, immediately plastered himself to Anderson's back. Anderson let himself be pulled into hard muscle and shivered as Bond's hands smoothed down his chest, grabbing his hips, bracketing his groin. He moaned softly as he grew hard, feeling Bond's own erection against the small of his back. Bond lips were languid and wet against his neck, traveling under the collar and up to his ears. Anderson allowed it a moment longer before pulling away and turning. He placed a hand on the side of Bond's face, still smooth, letting his fingertips caress cheeks and lips. He moved close, practically pressed against Bond's front, tilting his face up. Bond didn't move but allowed Anderson's lips to press small kisses to the underside of his chin, his cheek and finally a light kiss on his lips. He pulled away as Bond began to respond.

With a smile he turned and walked into his bedroom, closing and locking the door.


	4. So Deadly, My Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson is a better actor than he would like to admit.

That night found the two agents in a lavish restaurant with two of the most powerful, and most trustworthy, men in the Organization of Islamic Banks. They had no taste for terrorism and though Muslim, they were devoted to capitalism. They were both dressed immaculately in French-tailored double breasted suits and greeted the two agents warmly, if a little cautiously.

"It is not enough to say that we were surprised," said Amin al-Madari. He was a very kind looking man and had taken it upon himself to order wine for the whole group. "The British government taking control without even a, how you say, 'heads-up' to the Americans."

"The American government for the past few years has been utterly ineffectual in taking care of its own house, much less the 'war on terror' they're so gung-ho about," Anderson said, with only a small trace of bitterness.

"I do not lie when I say we are glad that it is your government and not the Americans' that is undertaking this... job," Anwar Tarakani said.

"But we have your support when it comes to getting this money transferred to the accounts in Zurich and shutting down the common accounts throughout the region?" Anderson asked.

"Yes, yes," al-Madari assured him. "It's all in place. Most of the transfer will be from Ms. Vertinskaya to you, through cash or some other kind of wire. When you have apprehended these financiers we will be free to freeze their accounts, especially those drawn from other countries. Without their money they can do little to hurt us."

Price's information had been absolutely invaluable in one respect: it had shown them that getting the money held by Vertinskaya would be nothing if they could not also get to the banks that the run-of-the-mill terrorist withdrew money from. Unlike Le Chiffre, Vertinskaya did _not_ trust banks or the stock market. Her clients could only access their money through her. She made sure there were regular deposits into the banks through third party accountants and terrorism lived to fight another day. Once the money was in MI-6's hands they would shut off those deposits and the OIB would close or freeze accounts based on some "information" that they were financing terrorism.

From there, the evening passed pleasantly with talk of Jeddah and a few other modern cities in the Middle East that were worth the time to see. Anderson summarily ignored the hand the stayed on his knee most of the night, inching ever closer to his groin as one bottle of wine turned into two. He knew that he himself was flushed with both the alcohol and the intimacies of Bond's hand. The bankers kept exchanging amused looks, as Bond's hand was in clear view.

Anderson supposed he deserved it.

*****

"Why do you insist on this game?" Bond said as they entered the hotel suite common room. He didn't even look curious, only... anticipatory. As if he knew Anderson was only making him wait and didn't really care why.

Anderson took the five steps between them at a rapid pace and smashed his lips to Bond's. His arms clamped around Bond's chest and he felt one hand grab his ass. The other hand was clutching the small of his back, forcing him near in ways the other hand couldn't. Stubble scored along his still-smooth face and the taste of red wine and exotic spices made Anderson's head spin. Bond groaned and Anderson answered him as their groins came into contact. A few near-thrusts and Anderson pulled away.

Bond kept a firm grip on him, but Anderson wasn't discouraged. Bond wasn't the kind of man who forced.

"I insist on this _game_ because I am in the midst of a mission. While it may be standard operating procedure for you to fuck anything that moves while on missions," he raised an eyebrow, "or off them, I do not."

"You're logic then is that _I_ am some sort of distraction from your duties," Bond said and Anderson recognized a verbal trap when he saw one.

"On the contrary," Anderson smirked. "It keeps me on edge."

With a pointed look at Bond's groin he stepped away unimpeded and went to his bedroom. He didn't lock the door.

*****

After two days of drinking and dining with style, two nights of Anderson completely shunning Bond's attempts to get him into bed, Saturday morning came with a brisk knock on the common room's door. Anderson pulled on his robe and opened the door to Raisa Vertinskaya who strode in looking like she'd been up for hours. She no longer had black hair, but a steamy golden red, and she was wearing a cream travel suit.

"Your meeting is tonight," she said with no introduction as Bond emerged fully dressed and freshly showered.

"Where?" Anderson asked. She handed across a few sheets of paper.

"There is a gentlemen's club in the old city. It has private rooms, one very large. They will meet you there. They will be frisking you, bring only what you need. You," she pointed to Bond. "Should have firearm. They will not believe you traveled unprotected. Evening dress, gentlemen, and have your 'accountant' on standby if they wish to speak with them."

"You won't be there?" Bond asked. That was not exactly part of the understanding, but she was a little bit like insurance for them.

"They have your aliases, your pictures, details of your accounts, and my assurances. They will attempt to intimidate you, to make you slip up. But I do not believe there will be anything beyond that. My part in this is finished," she said.

"You travel today, Raisa?" asked Anderson.

"Yes, my villa in Switzerland calls," she said with a warm smile. She kissed both men on the cheeks before taking her leave.

"Hmm, evening dress. I've been dying to see you in a dinner jacket." Bond said lowly. The compliments, the innuendo, the lack of personal space had all continued despite Anderson not being any more encouraging. He hadn't been lying to Bond entirely. Having to contend with an amorous suitor kept his guard up and made him focus more clearly. There was a certainty in knowing that Bond wanted him. Had he acted cold to him, or sarcastic like Keith, Anderson might have spent those first few days agonizing over their relationship rather than knowing exactly what it was, enjoying the hell out of teasing Bond, and becoming more attuned to his role.

"I thought you'd rather see me out of it?" Anderson countered, going back to his room to get dressed. Today, they would spend the day as their characters. The men would be out looking for them now, watching for a double cross. Anderson would shop, Bond two steps ahead or behind him. He would make phony calls to other accounts--MI-6 agents giving him instructions or information really--with Bond making notes on a Blackberry.

He dressed as casually as a billionaire could, throwing on a pair of sunglasses and his Panama hat before meeting Bond. Out on the street Anderson acted as the seducer, throwing glances and innuendo at his poor bodyman. Bond attempted to act like they didn't thrill him, but every once in awhile a sly glance or smirking smile gave him away. It was no matter, they had decided to play it that way, hadn't they? Everything went smoothly. MI-6 had no new information for him so while talking about money and transfers to Villiers, the latter told him all about England's chances for the Cup.

While admiring a particularly beautiful vase, which he was tempted to buy for his mother, Bond sidled up behind him, pressing close and putting his lips to Anderson's ear.

"There are two men following us and another three ahead of us. They're definitely watching," he said. Anderson, still in character, threw Bond a grin and went for a kiss, which Bond--and Anderson could see the reluctance in his eyes--pulled away (from) professionally. Anderson smirked and turned away, continuing down the line of shops.

Driving back to the hotel later they saw only one car following so Bond drove as recklessly as possible, enjoying giving the pursuers a good chase. Bond pulled up to the hotel and threw the keys to the valet. Anderson fixed Bond with a glare which the other man shrugged off. All for the benefit of their watchers, of course.

They were cautious in the hotel room. It was likely it had been bugged though none of their luggage had been disturbed. They had hidden anything that might incriminate them well. One of these things was a bug sniffer which they pulled out to sweep the room for listening devices. When nothing turned up they re-hid the device and began to speak normally.

"I'm sure they bought it," Anderson said.

"You were a superb actor," Bond assured him. "I am sure we'll be fine."

*****

Stepping out into the cooler Jeddah night Anderson started not to feel like himself. He became his character. A cold mask fell over his face and he affected a cold, casual grace to his step. He was a man who could smile with everything but his eyes. He suppressed his giggle; he suppressed the screwed-up expression his face took when he smiled; he suppressed the 'wounded puppy' look that had earned him the last Coke when he wanted it. Bond, he saw, was back to the man he'd been in M's office. A cold sort, not given to any kind of real flirtation beyond that which would get him what he wanted.

The gentlemen's club was not exactly in the old city, but on the outskirts of the modern one. It was grand and exclusive. Anderson walked in as though he owned the place and, for good measure, took a speculative look around as though contemplating it. Bond did the same, but more with an eye for enemies--part of _both_ his job descriptions. Without looking to see if he followed, Anderson followed the butler to the private room where he'd be meeting the money behind the masterminds.

The room, contrary to his expectations, was not filled with cigar smoke and men in expensive suits with hired guns surrounding them. Rather, they looked like some kind of demented class reunion, laughing jovially and drinking expensive drinks at round tables. When Anderson stepped in it took a moment for the room to die down. One man came forward and patted down each of them, smiling when Anderson was clean and nodding approvingly when Bond wasn't. The man nodded to the others and the crowd relaxed.

"Gentlemen!" came a tenor voice. It was almost breathy and it was unexpected for the tall man who stepped forward. "It is good of you to come. Ms. Vertinskaya highly recommends you."

"Ms. Vertinskaya highly recommends you as well," Anderson said allowing a cold, welcoming smile onto his face. The men around them laughed and the man patted Anderson on the back, ushering him into the crowd.

"I will not bother with introductions. Some do not speak your language and there are too many of us for you to remember on a night like this."

"Hello, gentlemen," Anderson nodded. Many bowed or nodded back before reengaging their fellows in conversation.

"I am Hassim Nadar," the tall man said, offering his hand. Anderson took it, pumping it once before letting go. This was one of the men who was also part of the Organization of the Islamic Conference. Anderson would have a better idea who all was part of the OIC when he received their money, but to have this self-appointed leader be one of them was discouraging for the mission of the organization.

"Looking forward to doing business with you, Mr. Nadar."

"Call me Hassim, Mr. Bristow," he said, gesturing to a chair at his table. Anderson took it, inwardly amazed that these men did not seem like the evil-doers that he'd expected. All politeness and openness. He suspected it was somewhat a facade, but it was incredibly difficult to tell.

"Call me Will, then," Anderson answered. Giving his drink order to the waiter he straightened his cuffs and looked Hassim in the eye. "A shame that Raisa was getting out of the business. She practically got me started," he said.

"Yes, a real shame. She had an eye, you know, for what we needed and when we needed it. We never had to give her instructions, she just seemed to know," Hassim said and his own eyes grew speculative.

"I hope to anticipate your needs as effectively, Hassim. I am not _so_ new to the business," he deliberately laced his fingers so the Vanderbilt ring caught the light. He could see Hassim's eyes flick to it, a smile of satisfaction twitching at the corners of wide lips. "But I must say this is the largest account I have ever taken on."

"Then we are glad to have you, Will," Hassim said. "Does your man require anything?" He asked with a nod to Bond. The other agent was stiff against the wall, watching everyone. Anderson threw him a look before turning back to Hassim with a smile, timing his answer perfectly.

"A sense of humor would not go amiss," he answered. The light laugh of before turned into a belly laugh. The others at the table laughed as well, hearing the exchange. As the joke was passed around and the others laughed, Anderson allowed his hosts to see a small smile of satisfaction.

Dinner was a grand affair, full of Middle Eastern delicacies, plus a few from Europe and Asia. Anderson was stuffed to the gills, but had limited himself to only two glasses of wine and an after dinner brandy, not wanting to lose his sharpness.

"How do you find Jeddah?" asked a man whom had been sitting at Hassim's table.

"I must confess that it's one of the most pleasant places I've had the opportunity to visit," Anderson spoke truthfully, but threaded the needle carefully in his next sentence. "But then many of my clients prefer jungles and deserts, far away from... civilized things." The men laughed and nodded and the man who'd asked looked very pleased.

"Will, I do believe we will get along very fine indeed."

*****

"Well done," Bond said when they'd completed another sweep of the hotel room.

"I acquitted myself satisfactorily enough for Double-O seven?" Anderson asked, untying his bowtie and letting it hang from his collar.

"You had them eating out of the palm of your hand and you know it," Bond said and Anderson had to smile.

"Comes from years of practice with my mother's friends," he conceded. "I will admit, sometimes I played characters with them, it wasn't too difficult to discern which one they wanted to see. These men wanted to see someone who was not afraid of them, who could joke with them, but still remain aloof. They were not looking to make a friend. That was a business meeting in every particular."

"I must confess, the dinner jacket does look quite handsome on you," Bond said, coming closer again. Anderson stepped back.

"Much as I'd like to go fifteen rounds of innuendo with you, I am dead tired. Good night."

Anderson slept deeply, the rigors of the day catching up with him. It was only the sound of breaking glass that threw him from his sleep. He instinctively dove off the bed and caught, in the moonlight, a man in black darting to his side of the bed. He had a gun. He rolled quickly and caught the man underfoot, tripping him to the ground. The gun went flying to the other side of the room. Anderson jumped to his feet and aimed a kick at the man who'd quickly regained his own footing. His leg caught the man in the knee, who jarred briefly before coming back with a punch to Anderson's gut. Using the punch to his advantage, despite the screaming pain in side, he grabbed the man's back and thrust his knee into his stomach twice. He grabbed the fist of one hand and jabbed the elbow into the man's neck, sending him down again.

He jumped for the table where he'd taped his holster and pulled the gun just as the other man regrouped with his own. They stood at a standstill, guns in each other's faces.

"The question you are asking yourself," the voice was a heavily accented English, Russian maybe, "is whether or not your trigger finger is quite as developed as my own."

"Not his perhaps, but I figure between the two of us you'll be dead no matter who is the better shot," came a cultured British voice. Anderson didn't even allow himself a "Thank God," when he heard Bond's voice. His eyes and gun were fixed on his would-be killer.

The man, seeing himself outnumbered, dropped the gun. But as Anderson moved towards him the man ran, taking a flying leap through glass and down onto the balconies below. Bond had rushed toward the man at his first movement and as he landed on the first balcony Bond shot him, between the shoulder blades.

Anderson was already on the phone for agents to come up and clean up the mess.

"Better call for the body in my room," Bond said and Anderson did.

They stood side by side on their balcony and watched as a few men swarmed the darkened balcony below and heard the movement in their suite as well, removing the bodies and cleaning up the evidence of their existence. Anderson looked at Bond.

"I don't think they were Nadar's men," Anderson said.

"No, they were convinced, of that I'm sure. I'd postulate that it was some rival ring. Nadar may have been stringing someone along until he met with us. They didn't like losing such a large contract."

"Those were my conclusions as well." Anderson felt himself shaking a little. He was an agent of the Secret Intelligence Service and a Double-O, but that experience had jarred him. That had never happened to him before. He'd never been important enough, by accident or design, for people to want to kill.

Bond was staring at him.

"You did fine," he said without an ounce of sympathy or comfort. "You did your job as you were trained to do. Stop fussing about it."

Anderson didn't point out that he hadn't so much as uttered a syllable and simply accepted that Bond, in addition to his many other talents, could also read minds. Arms came around him from behind and he didn't fight the embrace. His adrenaline was turning from an urge to do violence to something entirely different.

He suspected that Bond wouldn't have much of an objection.


	5. Merciless Eyes of Deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewards for a job well done.

Anderson turned in his arms and crushed his mouth to the other man's. Bond, to his credit, didn't take any time getting with the program. His tongue swept into Anderson's mouth like a general leading a charge up a hill. Anderson allowed him to take over even as his hands clutched the bottom of his undershirt. He pulled it up and they disengaged long enough to get both his and Anderson's shirts off. Chest to chest Anderson moaned and helplessly thrust into Bond. His chest was hard, more muscled than Anderson's. They broke their kiss again as Bond's lips trailed down Anderson's neck.

"Bond," he gasped when teeth grasped his neck tendon.

"James," Bond murmured through a bite full of skin.

"James, God, bed!" Anderson said, trying to move them, hands cradling his lover's head to his neck. James was in control though and pulled Anderson over to the bed, lowering him down and hovering over him. His eyes were no longer cold, but blazing, lips parted and nipples hard. Anderson grasped his head and pulled him in for a wet kiss. Bond lowered himself on top of Anderson, practically smothering him but for the forearms on either side of Anderson's head. They moved sensuously against one another, erections bumping each other through pajama pants and boxer-briefs. Anderson insinuated a hand down the back of James' boxer-briefs relishing in clutching the flesh there, pressing his groin firmer into James'.

"We're going to make a mess," James murmured. He hauled himself onto his haunches and inserted his fingers beneath the waist of Anderson's pajama pants. He'd worn no underwear underneath them and a wet spot was forming and spreading on the front of the linen pants. James lifted Anderson's hips easily and pulled them down, over his erection to his calves. Anderson used his feet to flick them all the way off and reached for James' underwear. The other man batted his hands away and rose, pulling off his underwear and lowering himself to Anderson's side, propped on his elbow like some sort of model. Anderson giggled and rolled his eyes as James waggled his eyebrows. James laughed as well, a deep joyous thing that made Anderson want to do positively indecent things to him.

Anderson rolled on top of his lover and kissed his eyelids, which obligingly closed for him. He whispered kisses, with wetted lips, down James' cheeks and nose, letting his hands rest on his chest. Every few moments a finger would pinch a nipple, eliciting barely-there gasps and eye flutters. James' hands stayed still on Anderson's hips, clenching as Anderson's lips encircled one pebbled nipple. He could hear James' heart beating in the silence of the room.

Their eyes locked, he kissed down James' chest, nipping slightly at the skin around his belly button, stabbing his tongue in. Unable to reach anymore, James' hands had come up to clutch the headboard and the bed jarred a little at his jerk. His cock was hard and leaking, butting against Anderson as he reached it. Anderson didn't tease too much. He ran the tip of his tongue up the underside, he could hear the headboard creak under the strain of James' hands. Wet, sucking kisses down the sides and James was growling, only barely containing the thrust of his hips. Anderson popped the head into his mouth and lightly sucked.

"Shit," James whispered. Anderson lowered his mouth further over James' cock, deep-throating it immediately. The other man gave a shout as Anderson swallowed. Not wanting James to come this way, he pulled off slowly, sucking as he went. Sitting up, he looked into James' eyes, a smug smile on his lips.

"Worth the wait?" Anderson asked, cheekily.

"Not if you leave it like that," James growled, hands releasing the desperate grasp on the headboard and back on Anderson's hips.

"So, what do you think we should do about that?" He indicated with a toss of his head. James answered by rolling them over, falling between Anderson's open legs.

"I think I know exactly what I want to do with it," he said, sucking and biting a hickey onto Anderson's chest, and Anderson felt his arousal, which had flagged slightly, roaring back.

"Fuck me," Anderson said. James paused only a second before looking speculatively around the room. "My shaving kit," Anderson answered the unasked question. The agent hauled himself off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, appearing moments later with the tube of lubricant that Anderson never went anywhere without and a few condoms. He covered Anderson again, just kissing him. Anderson loved making out. There was an intimacy to having your tongue in another man's mouth and James was licking and flicking every part of his. Anderson tried to battle the tongue, but then James would tweak a nipple, a run a few fingers up his erection and he'd lose his train of thought. He felt out of control. For the first time on this hare-brained mission he felt as though he was coming apart. Every part of him was on fire, remnants of adrenaline from the fight pent up, waiting for release. Even begging for it.

"God, please!" he pleaded, breaking out of another deep, thought-destroying kiss. The sweat of their bodies, cooled by the breeze off the ocean and the slight air conditioning made Anderson shiver, made James press closer. He almost missed the fingers that fluttered over his cock, teased his inner thighs before pressing lightly against his entrance. He thrust into them, encouraging and the snap of the lube container made him let out a breath of relief. Slick fingers pressed inside him, not bothering with teasing or careful preparation. They both knew he could take it, that he would prefer it. Foreplay had gone on for days, the teasing at the beginning of this encounter was all either could endure.

He watched James roll a condom gingerly down his length and hitched his legs up, showing himself off obscenely. Moments later, blunt, intense pressure hit him and he moaned, thrusting into it, wanting it _now_. James obliged, sliding in without regard to comfort, not waiting for Anderson to be ready, just _making_ him be ready. All the way in between one breath and the next, James paused only moments before withdrawing again.

Their rhythm was perfect, instinctively knowing when it needed to be fast, when it needed to be hard. His legs were hitched around James' hips, urging him closer, further inside. But it was still not exactly what Anderson wanted.

"Wait," he said, and James paused mid-thrust. "Pull out," he instructed, and James did so, looking suspicious. "Sit back."

When he had James sufficiently positioned on his knees he turned his back to him and lowered himself back onto James' cock. The other man moaned, sliding deeper than he had in the previous position. Anderson felt utterly filled and his skin hummed and begged to move. Just _move_. James thrust up jerkily and they both gasped. Anderson finally grabbed what little control he could, twining one arm behind him to grab James' hip. He rose almost all the way and thrust down quickly, both of them crying out at the intensity. This rhythm was fast, messy, utterly driven by desire. Anderson was shaking all over, hardly able to hold himself up. On a particularly hard thrust he fell forward onto his hands, but James' cock never left him. The man simply leaned into it, fucking him harder, losing control. Anderson transferred his weight to one arm and grabbed at his cock, which had had so little attention that he cried out at its sensitivity.

"Please, please," he pleaded, though whom he was pleading to he had no idea. He knew James was close, the man was practically slamming, but hardly pulling out. His own hand whipped over his cock, he couldn't feel the build, could only feel immense pleasure, sparks along his synapses. When his orgasm hit him, he reared back onto James' cock, his vision whiting from the acuteness of the pleasure. He could feel James thrust once more, holding, a pulse of heat inside him.

They collapsed on their sides, James' arm around him, still inside him. They lay like that for who knew how long, watching the sky lightening ever so slightly from the east, barely touching the darkness they faced.

When James did separate himself it was only to dispose of the condom and bring a washcloth to clean off themselves and the bedspread. Satisfied with his clean-up, James pulled the covers over top of them and, in a move that stunned him, spooned Anderson, throwing an arm over him, holding him close.

Anderson fell asleep soon after, wondering when might have been the last time James Bond had bothered to spend the night.

*****

The next morning they met Hassim Nadar at a terrace restaurant. The man was dressed immaculately in a cream suit and insisted on paying for Anderson's meal. Bond stood off to the side, the ever-vigilant bodyguard. They spent most of the morning in pleasant conversation, talking about soccer, art, and history, staying away from politics and business. As the man signed his credit card slip with a flourish he bestowed a satisfied smile upon Anderson.

"Many of us are ready right now to retain your services," he said with a smile full of small white teeth.

"I'm glad to hear that," Anderson said with his own smile.

"There are a few who still waffle, though. Unfortunately, our little... syndicate must bank with only one group. We will need to convince the others."

"Any... advice you might have would be of great value to me," Anderson said, sipping his juice.

Hassim leaned forward as if sharing a secret. Anderson did the same with a mocking smile and Hassim returned genuinely.

"They are suspicious men. They trust Russian woman over American man. They will attempt to test you," Hassim confided. "I have seen their plans, they do not know about this meeting. They will drop anonymous note with C.I.A. agent. How you handle this man will convince them."

Anderson grinned like a shark. "A spook? They think this is enough to intimidate me?" He shared a secret smile. "They don't know me very well, then, do they?"

*****

The C.I.A. gambit wasn't one that Anderson had anticipated. Vertinskaya had been right when she said that these men weren't fools. They had chosen a test of faith that Anderson would have to navigate very carefully indeed. He didn't think he'd be instantly recognized, but he was not so naive to think that whoever this man was wouldn't look twice. Deja-vu would be the only way to pull this off, either that or the cousin bit. He wasn't worried about the men who would be watching.

Bond wasn't worried. Or if he was, he was doing a fine job not showing it. They had taken a drive down the coast, since it was probable the hotel was no longer a safe place to speak. The Aston Martin was gliding past everyone and it was obvious Bond was getting sincere enjoyment out of the drive.

"If these men think you're not legitimate, they think that the C.I.A would be the perfect way to ferret you out. They'll be watching closely. We can deal with the agent, no matter whether he's really that discerning or not." Bond, it appeared, had about as much faith in the U.S. Intelligence establishment as Anderson did. "They'll be expecting me to be there. If it comes down to you getting compromised, I'll simply shoot the man."

Anderson sincerely hoped that was a joke.

Their return to the the hotel would mark the first time they would need to remain in character. They couldn't get rid of the bugs that had undoubtedly been planted while at breakfast.

"Really, Jonathan, I don't know why I keep you on if you're so unwilling to submit to certain demands," Anderson said as he unlocked and entered the suite.

"Be that as it may, sir, I was hired for your protection, not to do double duty in your bedroom," Bond shot back, checking each room, as a good security man should do. Anderson flopped into a plush chair. They weren't sure about cameras, but it stood to reason if the men were "watching" it would be in the hotel room, a place they could anticipate a visit.

"Believe me, I'm kicking myself over that particular hire," Anderson said.

"I do believe when it comes down to it, you'll want me between you and whoever wants to kill you," he said. Adding a moment later so as to be slightly insubordinate, "Sir."

"I like you, Jonathan," Anderson said with a cold, lascivious smile.

"The feeling is mutual, sir."

"I have phone calls to make, Jonathan. Make yourself scarce," Anderson said before pulling out his cell phone. He called Christiane and Villiers and had cryptic conversation with both. Their cell phones would remain safe so long as they remained on their persons. They were untraceable numbers and nearly hack-proof. He spent the rest of the afternoon going over phony accounts and making phony calls.

He fully expected that the C.I.A would try and contact him that evening, so he headed out to dinner, Bond in tow. They dined leisurely, Anderson making the appearance that was he was drinking far more than he was. He had a high tolerance, or at least was able to work capably through intoxication, but it wouldn't do to test that and slip up.

Their rooms were dark when they entered later and they both saw a shape on the common room couch immediately. Bond had his gun out and trained before the intruder could even react. His hands went up and Anderson flicked on the lights. He smirked at the man and made a show of slipping out of his coat and tie.

"Jonathan, I do believe we have an intruder," he said.

"Sir," Bond responded, the amusement in his voice clear to those in the room.

"Kill him," Anderson ordered casually, and the safety clicked off the gun.

"Wait!" the man said. Then produced his own cold smile. "I'm here to make a deal." The agent was obviously new to his assignment. And obviously not too far up on the food chain.

"Really?" Anderson asked sarcastically, coming closer, pressing his hands into his pants pockets. "I thought you were breaking into my private rooms and making a general nuisance of yourself."

"I have a proposition," the man said.

"Really? What is this proposition?" he asked, leaning against the table and cocking his head.

"You've recently been contracted by an Islamic terrorist syndicate. We at the C.I.A are interested in a deal," he said bluntly and Anderson had to admire his gall for a second. He'd never even attempted to butter Anderson up.

"And what," Anderson started as he stalked towards the agent. "Makes you think I am at all interested in whatever the C.I.A has to offer?"

"Immunity, asylum," the man said and Anderson had to shake his head truthfully, tsking.

"Giving away all the power like that? A sure sign of weakness, my friend. Unfortunately, the one thing your government cannot offer me is the only thing I am interested in." With that he turned and walked to his bedroom, nodding to Bond as he went.

The shot was muffled by the silencer.

*****

Their handling of the agent was apparently proof plenty for those still suspicious and the next morning a phone call put them at the gorgeous seaside home of Hassim Nadar where all the men from two evenings ago had gathered again. Breakfast was issue number one, where Anderson delighted in all manner of exotic dishes and a few alcoholic morning beverages he'd never heard of. Even Bond, with a nod from Anderson, had relaxed enough to get a drink and munch on a few delicacies. He'd even engaged one or two men in conversation about what he would be doing to make sure their money stayed safe.

Finally came the business portion of the morning. A contract was drawn up, Anderson doing his part to make sure he was making a good enough profit. Not arguing over interest would have been seen as weak and suspicious. Every single signature was like a bell tolling in Anderson's head. One by one these men would be taken down by the assumption that William Bristow was just as ruthless as any one of them.

The night before, Anderson had retreated to his bedroom and immediately called up the agents in Turkey. The tranquilized C.I.A agent in their hotel room would be quite a detriment to the mission. They would not send word to the Americans about their agent. That might compromise the whole thing and MI-6 had spent too long putting it together for the C.I.A to come and muck it up. Bond had tranq-ed the agent and dragged him out to the hall and down into a broom closet. From there he'd called the front desk and requested another room on their floor where he promptly disposed of the unconscious agent.

Anderson had come over later when the agent had woken up.

"You've walked into a very delicate MI-6 operation," Bond explained. "I'm afraid you'll have to stay here and pretend to be dead for a little while longer."

The agent had asked a lot of questions, too many, and Anderson had had to dismiss the familiarity between them. He'd even kept up the British accent to throw him off. The agents from Turkey had arrived not much later and would be keeping a close watch on the whole situation, including looking out for any C.I.A operatives that came looking for the missing agent.

As the last man signed his name and the contracts were gathered to be photocopied and redistributed, Anderson saw the end of the mission in sight.

"I have reserved a plane at the King Abdulaziz Airport. Simply have the money sent care of William Bristow Enterprises," he shared an ironic smile with the men, "and it will be delivered to the correct place. Or, if you are uncomfortable with this arrangement, I will be leaving town in two days. Be there that morning and I will see it safely stowed. I assume Raisa reimbursed you in large bills?" The entire room nodded. "Excellent. ETA in Zurich is late that evening, but they will see me. From there the money will be wired to the individual accounts," he gestured with the sheaf of papers with names of banks and accounts they wanted their money dispensed to.

Hassim came forward, placing one arm on his bicep and shaking the other hand. Everyone around them clapped and smiled. As though they were applauding a new merger between two Fortune 500s instead of a new deal between a terrorist organization and their accountant.

Sometimes the strangeness of Anderson's life caught up with him in interesting ways.

*****

Firmly assured of the upper hand as they entered the hotel room, Anderson said, "Dispense of whatever recording equipment they have used to assure my allegiance, would you Jonathan? I've no desire for these men to hear us should you finally give in to my irresistible charms."

"I can assure you, sir, that particular scenario won't be a problem, but I'll do it at once."

A quick sweep revealed a number of bugs, audio and video, which they disposed of, laughing in the manner of cold-hearted businessmen instead of cold-hearted spies. A phone call from Hassim assured them the men who had been listening had gotten quite the kick out of the continued banter between the two and would not be installing further devices.

As Anderson hung up the phone he was thrown against the wall and a pair of insistent lips were attached to his. He returned the kiss fervently and steered them toward the bed, not resisting the hands removing his clothes.

He thought he deserved a reward.


	6. Intermission: Live and Let Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it just doesn't pay to get up in the morning.

Keith Olbermann was not a happy camper. He really wasn't sure _how_ he got sucked into planning this party, but he was sure it was mostly Rachel's fault. He didn't know how, but she was generally a good person to blame when he was doing something he didn't want to do. While he counted Jon Stewart as one of his closest friends, Keith was not generally the one people thought of when they thought "event planner."

He had engaged a place and even a nice cover band thanks to Anderson's "Little Blue Guide to Party Planning." He'd also found some bartenders who he just had to pay and they would show up with all the booze on the planet if need be. Now, all he had to do--since Stephen had claimed the invitations, setting the date, and getting Jon there without knowing upon himself--was get the food. And that was where he ran into a problem.

There were literally a hundred different catering places listed in the book. There were notes galore: _Too spicy_, _Too much foam_, and _Overpriced CRAP_ were just a few. He had attempted to get a hold of Cooper on his cell phone, but every single time it had gone to voicemail immediately and there had been no calls back. Finally, he bit the bullet and called the one place without a little note. Nestled between _Chef indulges inner child_ and _ Everything is on toothpicks_ was "Bingham Catering."

The number looked international, but at this point, Keith was willing to give it a shot. He picked up the portable phone and entered all the numbers. He drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited for it to connect.

"Bingham catering, how may I direct your call?" the voice that answered was British and professional sounding.

"Yes, I need to speak to anyone in charge," Keith said, not willing to speak to a lackey. He'd learned that lesson while trying to get a space. He'd gone through six different 'associates', all with various job titles, before he demanded to speak with the manager.

"One moment please." A few tones and Keith was listening to the kind of Godawful muzak that he was certain was a ploy to get people to hang up.

"One moment please while I redirect you," said another British voice, this one male.

"Sure," Keith said into the muzak.

"Whichever one of you this is, you better damn well be dead or compromised, or I'll kill you myself for nearly blowing your cover. Honestly, what were you thinking calling the cover company?" came a chilly older woman's voice. British like the others. Keith supposed they were in Britain.

"Uh, I'm trying to get a hold of the manager or owner of Bingham Catering," Keith said in a small voice, still flummoxed by what the woman had said.

There was a long silence.

"Who the hell is this?" she asked.

"Um, you know, I think I have the wrong number," he said quickly before hanging up. He set the phone down and launched himself to standing, staring at the phone with a vaguely ominous look. He picked it up and returned it to its base all the while watching it as if it might attack.

What the hell was that? What had that woman meant by 'cover company' and 'compromised'? And what was that number doing in Anderson Cooper's Little Book of Gay Event Planning?

*****

He managed to put the strange phone call out of his mind for all of one day. Thursday night he came home and was immediately aware that something was amiss. He couldn't put his finger on it, he wasn't an intuitive kind of guy, more like a paranoid one. But the silence and the darkness of his apartment was somehow... _off_.

The hand on his mouth and trash ties around his wrists confirmed it for him. He struggled, kicking and grunting, but whoever had a hold of him was too good. Tape was slapped over his mouth as the hand lifted away, before he was even able to begin to draw breath to yell out. A bag was wrenched over his head, it might have actually been some kind of cloth, and the dark went pitch black. Still he struggled.

"Bloody hell, just knock the bastard out," came a British voice. The next thing he knew was pain and then nothing.

*****

Regaining consciousness in the storage area of an airplane, mid-flight, had to be one of the stranger, and more painful, experience of Keith's life.

He decided to lose consciousness again rather than deal with the new circumstances of his existence.

*****

As he was transported from plane to car, car to building, and building to holding cell, he struggled. When he was brought into some kind of meeting room and the tape was ripped out his mouth he started shouting accusations and invectives at the gathering. The gathering was about ten men and one older woman, who looked downright pissed.

"Oh for Christ's sake, put him in a holding cell until Double-O eight arrives," she snapped. "Let him deal with this nuisance."

Keith had been called a nuisance many times in his life, most notably by his parents, his college professors, and the Republican Party, but she had said it with such an air of disdain that Keith believed it for the first time. He was virtually unimportant to these people besides the offense that had him carried here. He did recognize her voice as the one from the 'catering company.'

He put up a greater struggle on the way to the holding cell, as it was expected of him now. Thrown in unceremoniously, the door locked behind him, he seethed and paced. What right did they have? Because he dialed a wrong number?!

Except he hadn't dialed a wrong number, had he. The first woman to pick up had said 'Bingham Catering Company.' The last woman had called it the 'cover company.' He had gotten the number out of Anderson Cooper's little book. What the hell was Cooper mixed up in? He knew the man was no good, but he thought that just applied to his newsman job. He didn't admit that he was just a little bit scared for Cooper and dreamed up entire scenarios about the other man being held in this manner as well, with a little imaginative torture thrown in, and the myriad reasons why he would be.

For a day he seethed there. They brought food that, although British, was hot and good and thankfully not poisoned. He had a cot, a table and a chair. One to sleep on, one to bang on, and one to sit on while he composed a Very Special Comment in his head. One of those mirrors that undoubtedly someone was on the other side of, enjoying the show, was practically one entire wall of his little cell. No one talked to him but to deliver his meals and Keith didn't even bother asking questions.

He was just contemplating a hunger strike when the door opened. In came a man, hale and healthy looking, wearing an expensive suit and Keith thought he saw the flash of a gun holster when the man's arm swung the door closed.

Anderson fucking Cooper.


	7. Face to Face in Secret Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission goes off without a hitch. Back in the Real World, the shit has hit the fan.

The last two days in Jeddah were both nerve-wracking and some of the most pleasant of Anderson's life. On the one hand, he was still walking a high wire, playing William Bristow to the various men who came to call on him for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, wanting to get to know him better. He wined and dined with them, even flirted with one or two who were quite receptive, all the while feeling the iciness of his character chafe against his skin.

On the other hand, there was James Bond. The man was insatiable for sex, which was just how Anderson liked them, incidentally. They had sex on practically every available surface in the suite. A particularly fond memory was the shower sex, which put Anderson's legs around Bond's waist and Bond's cock in his ass. They hadn't gotten any complaints from neighbors--even though Anderson's bedroom wall was right up against the C.I.A agent's bedroom wall. The MI-6 agents that passed them in the hallway on their way out were always smirking and sometimes outright laughing at the two men, something they both took in stride. So, while playing William Bristow made him tense and snappish, Bond managed to soothe all that away with a well placed orgasm.

At the airport, two days after their last meeting, Anderson was relieved to see most of the men had already had their money delivered. Only two sat beneath the plane: Hassim Nadar, and a man often seen with him. They were both beaming.

"Ah yes! You are here, we began to wonder," Hassim said, shaking his hand.

Anderson threw a smirk over his shoulder at Bond, "We were... otherwise detained." Another glance back at Bond showed the man rolling his eyes. "But we are here. Your money is on board?"

"Yes, yes, your men were quite obliging," Hassim nodded. "I only came so I could get in a proper goodbye. My friend here is only paranoid." Said friend sent Hassim a glare, but both laughed, like old friends.

"I am glad. Perhaps we can find time, in our partnership, to see each other often," Anderson said. It was an outright lie of course. This man would hate his guts in a day's time. But it would not matter. Most of these men, in a few days, would have no choice but to talk to MI-6. The agency would have not only their money, but the evidence to bring them to trial if they didn't talk.

"I do hope it is so," Hassim said. They bowed to one another and exchanged another handshake before Anderson mounted the stairs, Bond behind him.

Ten minutes later, they were in the sky, on their way to Istanbul and then on to Zurich.

*****

They had picked up all but a small task force of MI-6 agents in Istanbul. The obliging "men" Hassim had spoken of were also on board as they landed in Zurich.

"You did well, Anderson," Christiane said, looking flushed with pleasure as she beheld most of the riches that had formerly been in terrorist hands.

"Thank you," Anderson said. It had been more difficult than he'd made it appear. Self-doubt, something that dogged his steps everyday, had plagued every decision he'd made. Though the whole thing had been planned meticulously, he'd spent downtime wondering whether there was something they'd missed. It was nice to know that everything had gone according to plan.

At least for this part of the mission.

Christiane and the other agents each caught commercial flights back to London almost as soon as they'd landed. He and Bond met with agents from the Swiss office to ferry the money to the Zurich bank. Bond left him then to go get them a hotel room while Anderson concluded business.

With a code and a swipe of a card, all the money was poured into the account that MI-6 had created. The parent account was then split into individual accounts, so they would be aware of just how much each man had been willing to contribute to terrorism. A phone call to Amin al-Madari of the OIB was all that was necessary to put a freeze not only on the accounts that individual terrorist cells had access to, but the individual accounts of each man. They would have no money for terrorism and no money for retribution.

Bond picked him up an hour later. They spent the entire night in a sweaty mess of limbs. James' cock only left Anderson's ass in order to put on a new condom. Anderson had never had sex like this before. It was tiring but pleasurable, each of them remaining on the precipice for as long as possible before chasing down the most intense orgasm of their lives.

*****

Sexual bliss was only interrupted by a phone call from M.

There'd been a security breach and it was Anderson's fault. Anderson knew exactly what had happened before M even opened her mouth to explain.

Keith fucking Olbermann.

*****

M was pissed, and she had a right to be. To put that number into a book that could be so easily loaned out was a breach of high magnitude. She hadn't hung him from the ceiling for it, but he could see she was seriously considering it.

"How could you be so stupid?" she spat at him. He remained impassive as one was supposed to during one of M's dressing downs. "Is this the only place you'd written it down?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And it didn't even occur to you when you casually handed it over to a civilian that he night have need of a caterer?" She wasn't expecting an answer, that he knew. Though he did have one. Number one, Keith made him absolutely crazy and the desire to have the man out of the apartment had overridden his common sense. Number two, only Keith could pick the one out of a hundred caterers in the book that would link up to British Intelligence. The law of large numbers seemingly did not apply to the pundit.

"I have no reasons, ma'am, only excuses," he said. She regarded him with her cold eyes.

"All right. You've done well, exceedingly so, which is the only reason I'm not having you killed. You are at least as valuable if not more so than Bond, but that will not matter much to the Prime Minister when he hears of this."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Your... 'friend', is in Holding Block D. After he yelled at _all_ the agents who brought him in and attempted to explain things to him he was placed there to cool down. He is now your problem to deal with. Dismissed."

*****

Looking in on Keith from the one way mirror he couldn't help the roll of his eyes. The man looked every inch the offended newsman. Anderson wondered whether he would be subject to an impromptu Special Comment when he entered. He was not optimistic. Keith's hair was askew, tie undone, suit jacket discarded, shirtsleeves rolled to elbows.

Anderson descended from the upper observation room and entered the cell. He knew he looked the part of the secret agent. He had dressed specifically with that in mind, knowing he'd have to see Keith some time today. Keith had whirled at the opening of the door and glowered at Anderson as he closed the door behind him.

"What the hell is all this, Cooper?" he growled. Anderson supposed he _was_ somewhat the offended party. He hadn't known asking for the manager of the catering company he'd called would get him connected with one of the best kept secrets in the world. That didn't mean Anderson was going to act like the contrite child.

"This, is my other job," he said calmly, leaning back against the one way mirror and stuffing his hands casually in his pockets. "Unfortunately, you happened to choose the _one_ catering company in my book that would put you in a jail cell."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"And you wouldn't take the explanation from any of those other nice agents who dragged your ass here?" Anderson finally let the leash off his temper a little. No one on this Earth could make Anderson lose it faster than this infuriating man.

"Just answer it!"

"I'm a spy," Anderson said simply. He wondered if Keith expected him to follow that announcement with a "Ta-dah!" and almost obliged him, but stopped himself at the last second.

"For who?"

"Britain."

"On us?"

"Who is 'us', exactly?" Asked Anderson, knowing it was one of those questions he often asked as a reporter that Keith hated.

"America," Keith ground out.

"Which America?" Anderson needled, because frankly people in South America and Central America also considered themselves 'Americans.' And, of course, to annoy Keith.

"Damnit, Cooper, quit fucking around and tell me!" It was entirely too satisfying getting a rise out of Keith.

"I am a spy for the British government. I spy on who they tell me to. And no, for your information, that has not included the _United States_ of America for quite a few years."

"So, what? You've been posing as a journalist for eight years for what purpose?"

"I haven't been 'posing', I have no ulterior motive there. It's just another part of my life. I enjoy the news, I enjoy reporting it. It's never been an issue with this part of my life."

"I can't believe you think you have _anything_" he half-laughed through the last word, "even resembling journalistic integrity when you're leading this-this," he shook his head with incredulity, "double life!"

"My life as a reporter and my life as an agent are completely separate. That I used trips to different countries to complete missions may have been stretching it, but it wasn't as if those places didn't need reporting from. And my not airing my opinion to anyone who will sit still long enough to listen is not an effect of my training, it just happens to be good journalism." It was in his training not to get angry and combative. His training had never really been able to withstand Keith.

"You know _all this fucking shit_ is going on and you say _nothing_-" Keith yelled viciously, but Anderson interrupted by springing forward and banging his hands on the table.

"_I could be arrested and tried for treason_!" Anderson yelled right back, apparently startling Keith into silence. He turned around and looked at his reflection, hair back to its normal silver, though the length was still the same. He'd washed out the dye the moment he'd arrived back in London. "Keith, I work for another government and no matter how you slice it, I have essentially committed treason. Not to mention the fact that I _do_ lead a double life. What little overlap there is, is actually too much. My keeping my job and reaching Double-O status," Anderson shook his head unable to even consider that far into the future. "As it is, I don't know that I can go back anyway," he finished quietly.

"What is 'Double-O' status?" Keith asked cautiously.

"It means that I kill people for the government."

Keith appeared to consider this. Consider the implications of Anderson's other life. What he was now and what he did. Anderson thought he looked a little scared. That was probably a sane man's reaction.

Anderson had never been accused of being sane, though.

"You're going to be debriefed and you'll have to sign a confidentiality agreement."

"And if I don't agree?" Keith asked mulishly.

"Then be looking for a few British agents, maybe even me, to be pointing a pistol at your head." With that, he left Keith in the holding cell.

He had a terrorist to kill.


	8. A Place to Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Keith finally _gets_ Anderson.

It wasn't as easy as all that of course. Apparently, when M had said Keith was _his_ problem, she had meant it. Anderson had to prepare the documents and bring them down for Keith to sign. Unfortunately, they would take a day to process and in the meantime Keith had either had to remain in the holding cell or spend every waking moment with Anderson.

Anderson thought after two days in the holding cell, Keith wouldn't be likely to take the first option.

And he didn't. The afternoon after Anderson's first visit, he returned with the paperwork. Keith had glowered at him the whole time as he signed his name with angry punctuation. Anderson wasn't too worried. Even if Keith did break the agreement, the number he'd called and the company he'd tried to get a hold of had both changed. If he were to announce on his show that Anderson was a spy and then give those things as proof, he'd be made to look pretty silly. Anderson, of course, would remain silent. He placed the options on the table and took the hastily rolled down sleeves and donning of sports jacket as a cue that Keith wanted out as quickly as possible.

It was nearly dinner time and Anderson, though in possession of a kitchen and stocks of food in the apartment that MI-6 made available for his use, was no cook beyond a few simple things. He took Keith to a pub down the road and immediately ordered the driest martini the bartender could manage. Keith had looked at him in surprise over the extensive beer list. Anderson figured that his stories of "not drinking" had gotten back to the pundit.

"Drinking is, unfortunately, a common side effect of this job. I have to maintain a certain level of tolerance," Anderson explained and apparently bringing up his 'job' again was a bad idea, as Keith scowled ferociously.

"I still can't believe you'd do this," he said lowly. Anderson made a quick survey of the restaurant. It was busy, just enough noise, enough people involved in their own stuff, that they could probably discuss this pretty openly. Other things would need to wait.

"Why?" Anderson asked, curious. "Of all the anchors and pundits and fake newsman on television who are angry at the government and the president and the way things are going, I think I'm the only one that doesn't have a deep-seated love of the United States. I was born there, I grew up there, my family is one of its most famous. But I've seen this world. I've seen the way they see the U.S.. I think I'm the least surprising person who could be sitting across from you right now."

He could see Keith conceding the point. Anderson had given it thought. Looking back on his life, with this information in hand, it made perfect sense that Anderson wasn't exactly on the right side of the law in America. The people who tended to get the most passionate about their problems with the government and the president were generally the ones who loved their country the most and so had the most to lose--their belief in their country--when they were let down. Anderson had seen too many in the world let down _because_ of the United States. But he could see the other question forming in Keith's face. The one he didn't have an easy answer to.

"When did you join?" he asked first.

"Right out of college," Anderson answered immediately.

"You didn't form this opinion about the U.S. _then_. You didn't travel to all those places in your book until after college," Keith needled.

"True, except for Africa. I wanted to join the C.I.A, be an agent and work in Africa, specifically. But they didn't want me for that. They wanted to stick me at a desk and never hear from me again. I had this incredibly random meeting with the head of the agency one day. I think I was bringing coffee to some agent. She saw something in me. What, I don't know, but a few months later, completely striking out with finding a job, she found me. That's all I'm willing to discuss here," he said, getting uncomfortable speaking of such things in the open. They ate quickly, discussing topics they had never taken the time to even broach in their brief friendship and long animosity. Their taste in films was similar, including a passionate love for _Lawrence of Arabia_. They had a mutual adoration and sadness for the demise of Looney Tunes. Their taste in music was divergent, however. Keith had a heavy emphasis on classic rock, while Anderson was, frankly, all over the place - from Nina Simone to the Clash, Prince to Ben Folds. They stayed away from their jobs and their pasts, both exclusive and mutual.

They walked the few blocks to Anderson's apartment, a fairly sweet set-up for someone who wasn't in the country all that often. It was so unused that M often had persons of Extreme Interest stay there, when hotels or a holding cell wouldn't do. It was expensive looking, but tasteful and elegant, filled with books and, more importantly, alcohol. Anderson poured them both a hefty measure of brandy before resuming the conversation he had cut off in the pub.

"M told me she wanted to train me with the eventual outcome of Double-O status. I was trained as a regular agent, but she never promoted me. When I finally asked her why, after going on so many missions, she told me that I was... I was too emotionally unstable."

"And then Katrina," Keith assumed.

"Yes. I've always cared about people, but in those years after my brother's death," he shook his head, "I was little more than a machine. I couldn't feel my own pain, much less anyone else's. M told me that while Double-Os were supposed to be dispassionate, they were not mindless automatons. Despite our rather callous definition of a Double-O as a blunt instrument, we're meant to be more than that. A fellow agent once described it as 'half-monk, half-hitman'," he allowed a fond smile at Bond's words.

"You said you were taking a couple months vacation. And yet you've only been gone a week or two," Keith stated, but there was an implied question.

"I'm finished with the first part, I can't tell you anything more," Anderson said. He couldn't even begin to predict Keith's reaction to the news that Anderson's other assignment was to find and kill Osama bin Laden, among others. He could be happy the bastard was getting what was coming to him, or angry that the man wouldn't be brought to justice. Frankly, Anderson didn't want to spend the next however many years covering his trial--it would be a circus that would make O.J. Simpson's look like a high school pep rally--and was glad to just shoot the man and get it over with.

"Can't or won't?" Keith asked and Anderson sent him a derisive look.

"Keith, you were hauled out of your apartment in the middle of the night and sat in a holding cell for two days for making a _phone call_," Anderson said and that seemed to answer Keith's question.

"Last question," Keith said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Does anyone, your mother, _anyone_ else know about this?"

Anderson hung his head and shook it. No, not even his mother knew. His mother subscribed to a "don't ask, don't tell" strategy about his life. He only told what he needed to and she only asked about those things. The time he'd come home with cuts and scrapes all up and down his legs, the time he'd gotten a head graze from a bullet, the time he'd been poisoned by a man he thought he'd loved. No one in his life knew about these things, had seen the scars.

But Keith Olbermann knew.

So, what did that mean for Anderson?

*****

"Can you tell me about your previous missions?" Keith asked at breakfast the next morning. The morning before he'd gone to see Keith, Anderson had gone out and gotten a few fresh things and they were enjoying scrambled eggs, toast and fruit salad.

"Depends on what you want to know," Anderson shrugged. His missions beforehand had been like most C.I.A agents. Making contact with "agents", information gathering, the odd setup like his most recent mission. "Why don't you pick one and I'll tell you about it?"

"Rwanda," Keith immediately said.

"Information gathering, mostly. I was in communication with the head of the Tutsi army that was slowly making its way in. I was gathering intel on weapon locations, numbers of Hutu killers and Tutsi dead, what roads were impassable, who would help them, et cetera. So long as I seemed unthreatening I was left alone. I was there long before I made the report for Channel One. That was pretty much the extent of that mission," Anderson answered. He was glad Keith had chosen that one. It had been a successful mission, at least if one measured success by some other standard than dead bodies. Anderson's presence there had only been sanctioned by M, who had given him a small stipend that wouldn't be reported to the Prime Minister. In other words, he hadn't been working in Rwanda officially.

But Keith didn't pick up on that little detail, staring balefully at his eggs, obviously wishing the story had been more dramatic.

"I'm just--" Keith stopped himself before standing abruptly, sending his chair sliding backwards. "How could you lie about this?! How could you write that book?! What, were you trying to gain sympathy, trying to... _deflect_ any suspicion?! Jesus Christ, Cooper! Forget that this job and your other job weren't related, as a journalist you had an obligation!"

"No, Keith, I didn't," Anderson answered calmly. His measured response seemed to stop Keith's tirade in its tracks. "I didn't have the obligation or, more importantly, _the right_," he stood and took his dishes to the sink. He leaned back against the counter. "Do you think it's just me out there, Keith?"

"Of course not."

"No, of course not. There are people like Valerie Plame, for one, who can't have their covers blown, because, oh gosh, someone she's spied on might have something to say or do about that. I will admit I live in an ethical grey area. Maybe even a dark grey area. But frankly, had you not called that number? No, had I not been _stupid_ enough to hand you a book with that number in it, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Ever. Someday you would have died or I would have died and you would be none the wiser about my... extracurricular activities. Even if I died on a mission, all MI-6 would have to tell people, through channels of course, is that I died of a massive coronary. And people will believe it. I've made sure they will."

"But you talk this nonsense about "Keeping them Honest" and telling the stories no one is hearing--"

"Keith! I didn't know you paid that close of attention to my show!" he said with fake surprise. "As for that, I do both of those things. That I don't do them about this job and stuff that no one but the Prime Minister will ever hear about is irrelevant. You were a security breach, Keith, and I don't think that's something you understand. You may think of yourself as a crusading Edward R. Murrow or Bob Woodward, but you're not, Keith. You knowing the things you know now is dangerous to you, to the world, and yes to me. The only fraud I'm perpetrating in my country of birth is that I give a _damn_ about staying loyal to them out of some misguided, cleverly disguised nationalism, that they don't even _realize_ is nationalism. I am _not_ deceiving people. I am not Joe McCarthy, or Richard Nixon, or even Bill _fucking_ O'Reilly, Keith, so you'd better get that through your skull. I am a part of MI-6 so I can actually get things done that will help the world, not just the United States. Because frankly? I'm not sure the U.S. deserves all that much help," Anderson finished. His anger was just under the surface, vibrating, probably turning him red. But he was done being thought of as some kind of traitor when there were men who held the American flag up like some kind of bullet proof vest and betrayed their country in ways Anderson would never dream.

And Keith seemed to get it. Because Anderson was sure no one had _ever_ talked to Keith that way. He was fawned over at MSNBC, a crusader, the next Edward R. Murrow who exposed scandal and tyranny. Men like Keith didn't seem to realize why 'that's classified' was invented.

"How much danger are you in, right this second?" Keith asked and Anderson was startled. It was a strange question. Anderson had expected more yelling--they were very good at it, after all--not a calm question, laced with.... fear?

He took a deep breath. "Well, that all depends, I suppose. As much danger as I'm usually in. I'll be in more in about a week. In fact, this may be one of the last times we speak to one another if this mission goes pear-shaped."

"You're willing to die for Britain, but not for your country?"

"I wouldn't be dying for Britain," Anderson answered. "I wouldn't be dying for anyone at all. It would be a senseless death, unless I achieve my objective, or it would be for me alone. I am willing to die to make this world a better place, no matter how hokey that sounds."

Keith was silent. They stood opposite one another, not looking at each other but out of the picture window onto the traffic below.

"I guess I can respect that then."

*****

The paperwork was finished and processed by the time they arrived at MI-6 headquarters. M looked glad to be well rid of the troublemaker she'd found in Keith and had charged Anderson with getting him to the airport and impressing upon him the dire consequences should he open "his great big gob."

Anderson used those words, and the threat of an ice cold muzzle, as they sat outside the terminal.

"So, you're really gonna keep doing this?"

"I might have a contract with CNN, Keith, but my contract with MI-6 is quite a bit tighter. Besides, this work is more important," Anderson answered, and therein lay the big chasm between him and Keith. Keith thought there was no higher responsibility, nothing more important than calling those in power on their bullshit and making them accountable to the people who elected them. Anderson had a broader scope.

"Be careful, all right kid?" Keith said seriously, a hand on Anderson's thigh. Keith had not called him 'kid' since their failure of a friendship, six years before. Anderson stared at Keith, suspicious as to whether he was sincere, knowing in his heart that he was.

"I will," he finally answered. With that, Keith got out of the car, ticket in hand and disappeared into the busy airport.


	9. The Plan I'm Making

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bin Laden gives Islam a bad name. Anderson and James Bond give blowjobs a good name.

As expected, the men Anderson had set up to lose everything came to MI-6 when the the offer was made. Every single one of them. Anderson was a little surprised. He knew there were at least three true believers in the group of about twenty-five, but it appeared that money was the most important thing to them. Anderson wasn't allowed in on the interrogations. He would have been an unnecessary provocation, for these men had fallen for his act hook, line, and sinker.

But that didn't mean he wasn't going to watch.

For three weeks each man was brought in, questioned, and any information he had was analyzed, compounded, and given to Anderson and Bond in bullet points. Anderson and Bond, meanwhile, spent most of their downtime together. Whether it was in bed or at the pub, they found they had a great camaraderie outside the mission. They made each other laugh and both were devoted to having fun, but not much more than that.

"So this Keith fellow," Bond started, raising an eyebrow one morning after a fantastic round of sex.

"Please, James, don't go there," Anderson groaned. James laughed deeply.

"He obviously irritates you to distraction. And yet you two still talk."

"We do not talk. We argue, we yell, we accuse. That is the extent of our relationship these days."

"These days?"

"Back before I had my show, I filled in for another anchor every once in awhile. One of those times was during the baseball strike and Keith came on to talk about the whole thing. We struck up a friendship, but... he was- he wasn't content with what he had. He was always pushing. Pushing to know my sexuality, pushing to know my political opinions, pushing to know my innermost thoughts. I asked him to ease up but he never did. Finally, I broke it off. Told him we couldn't be friends if he couldn't respect boundaries."

Anderson remembered those first few weeks with fondness. They had gone out to eat a few times, had made plans to go to a concert later in the year, Anderson had even conceded to going to a baseball game once with Keith. Anderson wasn't one to go after straight guys, but with Keith there had been a spark between them--later a spark of irritation and anger--that had made Anderson almost giddy. Then Keith had started asking questions. Insinuating, on the edge of insulting, questions that had made Anderson so uncomfortable that he'd pulled away until finally he'd broken it off.

"Does real friendship have boundaries?" Bond asked. "I only ask having never really had a real friendship of my own."

"Friendship is... is knowing when to push and when not to. It's knowing that as you go closer, the other person will open up to you. Keith wanted everything from the very beginning and I'm the sort of person who needs... shit, _years_ to build that kind of trust."

"Have you ever had that kind of relationship with anyone?" Bond asked.

"Not really. At least, not to the extent I've wished. I have friends, but they don't know about this life. They don't know how I feel about my country or my life. Keith knows some of that now, which is bizarre. And yet, it's also comforting. I can't name anyone else in my life I would tell about this besides Keith. Maybe because it has already happened but..." Anderson trailed off, unable to articulate how he felt about the situation accurately.

Oddly enough, Anderson was glad Keith knew.

*****

"They've given us nearly everything we've asked for," M said as Anderson and Bond took seats in front of her desk. "Names, locations, even descriptions." She handed them both a thick folder. A quick flip through showed targets with all the information they could gather attached. On the very top were instructions for the mission ahead.

"Much as we'd like to have Osama bin Laden hanging by his thumbs for the rest of his life, it's simply not an option. Legal and a few others have given me their projections should he go to trial and if anything it will be a complete farce. The United States government is interested in little more than a lynch mob, or so public opinion says," Anderson nodded at this. Too many would be seeking retribution instead of justice. "The Prime Minister has signed off on it so I've no compunctions about killing the bastard.

"Your priority and your primary objective, Cooper, is bin Laden. Kill whatever lieutenants you come across, but do not be deterred from getting to him. His last known location is in your information, but it may take some regular detective work to figure out if he's still there."

"Covers, ma'am, or simply incognito?" Anderson asked.

"Incognito. There are few aliases you could take on now that would convince any of them. We will be giving you the resources necessary to obtain the information you need. Bond will, again, be your second on this. These sorts of missions are his bread and butter, you might say."

*****

The night before Anderson and Bond were scheduled to leave was a lonely one for Anderson. James had cited a pressing engagement and Anderson, who had been spending more nights than not at James' apartment, went to his apartment and cold bed. He ate what was left of the fresh food in his refrigerator. He did two coats of tanning lotion so he wouldn't shine _quite_ so brightly in the mountain sun. He dyed his hair a honey brown that would blend in to the scenery. And then, with nothing else to do and nothing to distract him, he went to bed early. He let himself feel the tension of the past month bleed away, for though he'd been sleeping regularly, it had not been restful sleep. He was out before he completed his next thought.

Coming awake was like a warm bath. But that may have been the effect of the tongue lapping his inner thighs up to his cock, which was hard and leaking. He didn't press his hands to the head between his legs, only let those appendages fall further open, hips lifting involuntarily as lips reached his cock.

"James," he moaned appreciatively. The other man's skills had grown exponentially since their affair had started and James used every dirty trick he learned, and a few he'd made up on his own, on Anderson. He suckled the head of Anderson's cock, fingers tickling his sack. His breathing was uneven and loud, and he looked to the ceiling to calm himself. But James didn't allow him even a moment's control, using his newest skill, deep-throating, to make Anderson lose what little composure he had. He shoved his cock down James throat, eyes pressing shut and mouth falling open on an indecent moan. He felt the tickling fingers lift away, but a moment later a knuckle pressed against his perineum and he jerked up, coming down James' throat with a shout.

When he came back to himself, James was lounging beside him, smug and naked.

"I thought you might like some company," he said lowly.

"Would definitely not say no to some," Anderson said, still recovering. James was hard, but not desperate looking, more in control than Anderson would have been after giving such an erotic blowjob. He leaned over and kissed his lover, rolling on top of him. He trailed his lips from James' down his neck, nipping at the soft skin behind his ears, which made James grunt. Small bites, a flicking tongue, and sucking lips denoted his path down James' torso, paying particular attention to nipples. Finally, he came to James' erection, hard, leaking, and a glance at his face revealed that he had lost control somewhere along Anderson's journey. He let himself smile before taking only the head of his cock into his mouth. He suckled lightly, making James gasp and spasm. One hand came up to gently tease his sack, rolling them lightly along his fingers.

"Anderson," James said lowly. His hands, however, stayed still, not coming to rest on Anderson's head as they sometimes did. They gripped at the sheets and his legs drew up slightly to brace against involuntary thrusts. Anderson wanted him to thrust.

He lowered his mouth further, taking in nearly the whole length, not sucking, just wetting, letting the heat of his mouth surround James. A few passes up and down and he plunged James' cock into his throat, swallowing reflexively around a nearly nonexistent gag reflex. James shouted and Anderson was flattered to hear the sound of straining sheets. He pulled almost completely off, licking at the pre-come which had gathered heavily. He gave James a few moments to recover before swallowing him again. James thrust into his mouth and Anderson groaned around it. He was already half-hard just from the intimacy of the act, but feeling James lose that control, now encouraging him with hands and noise, had him fully erect in moments. James thrust mindlessly and Anderson swallowed continuously, rewarded finally with a great shout and the shot of warmth down his throat. He continued to swallow until James gently pushed him away.

James looked wrecked. He was sweating profusely and his mouth and eyes were slackened. Anderson smiled at the sight, laughing when James gave him the British equivalent of the finger.

"Well, as far as last orgasms for awhile go, that was fairly spectacular," James said.

"Who said anything about _last_ orgasms?"

*****

The plane to the American-held base in Afghanistan was not one that Anderson would wish to patronize on a regular basis. It was small, cold, and loud. He and Bond had resorted to putting on their iPods and drowning everything out. Their cover had already been established as civilian contractors. Soldiers were used to not knowing what _kind_ of contractors. Anderson had put on a much thicker British accent for this particular mission. They would be landing shortly and then, once shown where they would be staying, quickly abandon the base. A commercial airport would fly them into Peshawar, Pakistan and from there a long journey into the mountains of the North-West Frontier would begin.

The last known location of Osama bin Laden.

It was common knowledge among many that bin Laden had been hiding out in Pakistan, probably in a remote, mountainous area. But several of the men they'd questioned had known the location more exactly. They had scoffed at Anderson and Bond's chances of finding him, but once on the ground the two agents knew they'd have an easier time of finding those not _quite_ so loyal to the man. Already the population of Pakistan, and many of those who had once been a part of al-Qaeda, were turning against him. They accused him of "giving Muslims a bad name." Anderson kind of wished the moderates in his country would do the same thing.

Anyway, he really wasn't looking forward to the mountains. He'd never really been one for mountain climbing and visiting the Himalayas had never been on his list. They would be warm enough and they were both pretty much fit enough to do it. But that didn't mean they had to like it.

They were never accosted for their less-than-official credentials. They were let through every security check easily and soon a Private was showing them base housing. They dragged their luggage in for appearances sake but once left alone they quickly stripped from their travel clothes into more appropriate suits for the commercial airline. They then slipped away from the base--through a hole in the fence which amused Anderson greatly for some reason. The commercial airport was a bit more difficult and though neither were detained they each had their thumb on M's speed-dial.

Finally, landing in Peshawar, Anderson let himself fully embrace the mission and its objectives. Any number of things could have kept them from getting here, but now, on the ground and meeting with a few al-Qaeda dissidents, he felt closer to his goal and more optimistic about it.

The dissidents were young, angry men. They had been deceived by bin Laden's lieutenants. There had been promises of education and job training, but all they had gotten was terrorist training and Koran scholarship. This was all well and good, but these men had families that needed support. Most of the population of Pakistan lived in Punjab, a fertile area of the country more affluent than any other region. For them, it was easy to resist the kinds of promises that bin Laden made, the men explained. It was easy to accept the lie that the United States was the root of all evil and her allies were little better. Until, at least, it became clear that those lies only carried you as far as the mountains. It didn't suddenly mean an influx of money. They had been willing to hear out MI-6's proposition because while public opinion may have turned against him, the Pakistani government was in too much upheaval to do much about it.

The Pakistanis involvement in the plan would be one guide who could take them so far and then would leave them with a map and instructions. Anderson could tell that these men did not like their odds.

"He is heavily guarded. Young boys with no families and too much anger and nowhere to direct it. They will die for him," said one man with an angry shake of his head. Anderson had no wish to go around shooting young boys who were really too young to know much better, but when it came down to kill or be killed, he knew which one he would pick.

"What about his lieutenants, the men closest to him?" Anderson asked. The other men scoffed.

"Almost worse than he is," one spat. "bin Laden, he has passion, but it is tempered with intellectualism. He went to university, he has a _brain_. But these men are like those young boys. Angry and malicious. They have no care for innocents, none for life. Only pain. Suffering. They will be easy to pick off."

This made Anderson raise his eyebrows, "How so?"

"Because they are always out and about. Exerting their power, overseeing the training. They are easy to spot, easy to pick off," another answered. "If you are sniping I would suggest picking them off after training, when no one will be expecting them." Anderson and Bond took all these things to heart. These men hadn't gotten immediately out of the game. They had stayed even after they had grown disillusioned and they had watched these terrorists, watched them very closely apparently.

"Thank you all," Anderson said. "Now, who's going to be our guide?"

The smallest of the men came forward, the one who had spoken about the lieutenants. He looked wiry and had a fierce light of intelligence in his eyes. Anderson found it almost hard to believe that someone with brains would have even considered terrorism as a money-making scheme. He made a note to himself to ask him if the topic could be broached.

"We've gotten a car to take us as far as the road goes. From there, we hike."


	10. The Odds Will Betray You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all comes down to this: what haven't they thought of?

"If I ever complain about winter in New York, you have permission to shoot me. Jesus Christ, I've been to _Greenland_ and it wasn't this cold," Anderson complained as they finished their second day of hiking through the mountains.

They had abandoned the car--and he used the word 'car' charitably--in Drosh, a small village in the Himalayas. They had left their luggage with the car, only strapping on their guns and supplies. Their guide, Mammoud, had gotten them proper clothing and had hired a pack mule to carry enough supplies for the journey there and back. He would only be with Bond and Anderson until a day's journey from the camps. They would only carry enough not to starve or go thirsty.

"Chilly doesn't quite describe this cold, no," Bond answered with a smirk. As they set up what little shelter they would have for the night, Bond leaned in close. "I do believe we're being followed."

Anderson, to his credit, didn't freeze. He continued to help Bond, thinking of how to handle this.

"How many?" he asked casually.

"Only one, I think. He has a limited amount of supplies; I think he's only information gathering."

"He probably has a car on one of the access roads." There were definitely roads into the camps; there was no other way for them to get out efficiently to get to their money and supplies. A crude map drawn by an old man in the village had shown them approximately where these roads were off the main accesses. They were hiking nearly parallel with the one Mammoud claimed led to the particular camp they needed to get to.

"We can't let him report back," Bond said. Anderson nodded, and faked a stretch, looking all around him. He couldn't see what Bond had seen, but he believed him. M had said that these sorts of missions were Bond's kind. He liked getting dirty, despite how well he looked in a suit.

"Darkness then," Anderson decided. "Make to go to sleep, slip out, circle around."

"My thoughts precisely."

It was less than an hour later when the last light finally slipped behind the mountains and darkness was absolute but for a half moon and the blaze of the Milky Way. Not enough for anyone to see real movement with. Bond and Anderson and had changed into pitch black clothing, pulled face masks over pale skin, and Anderson could hardly see Bond himself. They crept around Mammoud, not willing to trust him, not entirely sure he hadn't tipped their pursuer off. With a few hand gestures, they headed in opposite directions. It was dangerous to be hiking in these mountains in the middle of the night, more so to be doing it without any unnatural light. Anderson had to move slowly and deliberately. Thankfully, though there weren't exactly trails, there were plenty of places where there was only rock, and there was no rustling of brush.

They had deduced that the man was less than an hour's hike behind them and was easily following their path because they hadn't deviated from an eastern course yet. He probably knew these mountains very well, was on the payroll of the terrorists or a terrorist himself. Finally, Anderson reached the place where they had been an hour before they'd called it a night. He was freezing, but thankfully the cold made him alert. He couldn't see Bond, but he trusted that the other agent was near. He started to creep in, slowly, quietly, pulling his silenced Walther PP9 from its holster and carefully flicking the safety off.

A cloud passed over the moon, and then a moment later their man was illuminated, asleep on the ground, wrapped in layers. He wasn't young, but not too old either, maybe in his mid-forties. Anderson could postulate that he was maybe someone like Mammoud, who needed to feed a family, who had had a promise of money fulfilled. He almost felt bad for him.

A quick glance around showed Bond, moving in close as well, catching Anderson's eyes with electric blue ones that glowed even in near pitch black. Neither felt good about it, but they had a mission, and sometimes there was collateral damage. Anderson held up a hand to stop Bond as he tried to think this through. If he was right about his assumptions . . .

The man, as if sensing Anderson hesitancy, jerked awake and was on his feet in moments, wheeling his head around as though looking for them. But the two agents were still carefully concealed.

"Dirty infidels," the man muttered in Arabic, and Anderson saw him unsheath a _gigantic_ knife that would more properly be called a sword if it were a little longer. His black eyes caught the moonlight and the hatred in them was absolute. Anderson cocked his gun, but was too late; the man saw him and lunged. Neither he nor Bond was quick enough, and Anderson jumped backwards to avoid having his guts spilled out on the ground. He ducked as the man swung again and wondered what the _hell_ Bond was waiting for, but then noticed a second man grappling with Bond. They hadn't bet on a second man.

He could only think about that for a second before the man was lunging again. Anderson dodged again and grabbed the man's knife arm with both hands. With a great wrench, he turned the knife back on the man and jammed it into his stomach. A well-placed kick to the abdomen had the man down. Anderson retrieved his gun from where it had fallen and shot the man in the head, turned immediately and, once he got a good shot, took out Bond's attacker.

The man fell without a word, the bullet to the head killing him instantly. They searched both the men thoroughly. There was no radio or any other form of communication on them. Anderson didn't think al-Qaeda was quite sophisticated enough to have transmitters, but they checked their skin for scars anyway. Finally, they bundled them back up and left them where they had fallen. If either of them did have any family, well, it was unlikely they would ever know what had happened to them.

The cells they were headed for would, unfortunately, most definitely know about their presence if the men following them weren't simply following a standing order. They would have to operate like it wasn't.

So much for the element of surprise.

*****

Three days passed, and the two agents came ever closer to their destination with no more late-night scenes out of an Indiana Jones movie. Their guide had not been surprised, or any the wiser, to see them alive and whole, so Anderson and Bond decided he hadn't been involved. Rather, probably someone else in the village had tipped off the camps.

The temperature had only gotten colder as they proceeded deeper into the mountains. Anderson was fairly sure his nuts were frozen to his leg. Bond seemed to be doing slightly better, but Anderson figured that was because he had about a third more muscle than Anderson did. It was strange sharing bedding because they were as wrapped up as they could manage and sleeping practically on top of one another, and yet nothing sexual ever happened or occurred to them beyond a few racy innuendos in English that thankfully flew right over Mammoud's head.

On the dawn of the fourth day after the attack, Mammoud announced that it was time for them to leave him behind. In the shelter of a rock face, where the wind wasn't _quite_ so punishing, they loaded their weapons and strapped down the supplies they would need. They were dressed in mountain camouflage, which the fashion-conscience part of him was bemoaning. Leaving the mule with Mammoud, they hiked out into the last leg of their journey alone.

"So strange to be this close," Anderson huffed, his breath pluming in front of him. They were both somewhat winded. They were headed over a fairly steep rock face that would eventually look down into the camp.

"The anticipation is killing you," Bond stated.

"A little. I'm not generally someone too affected by anticipation. I feel it, of course, but it never really gets to me."

"Because sometimes what you're anticipating takes a turn for the worse," Bond reasoned. "As a child you anticipated your father growing old with you, sharing a pint as adults. Same with your brother. You've learned that anticipation can lead to both the fulfillment and disappointment, and that it is better to simply 'roll with the punches,' as they say."

Anderson didn't think he should be pleased with Bond's easy, and correct, peek into his psyche. He wasn't pleased, but perhaps . . . relieved that someone understood it so well, simply from reading his file--although the psychological profile probably helped--and spending the past few weeks with him. Bond was a poker player, not a gambler though. He could read other people, know their strengths and weaknesses, and exploit them if that was his aim. Anderson, surely, had some kind of tell, but only someone as expert as Bond, knowing things no one else knew about him, could read his usually expressionless countenance.

"Anyway, this is a fairly important mission we're on. Rightful that you should feel some anticipation."

They dropped the subject then, lungs far too taxed to keep up any conversation of length. At times, they commented on the color of the sky, or some random wildlife they saw. Only when they'd neared the crest of the mountain they'd traversed did they open up conversation again.

"I've no doubt bin Laden isn't allowed out of his hole for more than a small length of time," Bond said.

"I agree. They would be anticipating something like this even if they weren't possibly tipped off days ago. How do you feel about nightfall?"

But Bond was shaking his head. "We shouldn't attempt it, they'll be waiting for such a move."

"All right then, early evening, after dinner," Anderson suggested. Bond nodded. "Mammoud and the others said that bin Laden's tent was one on the outskirts, wedged between two rock faces that meet at the back of the tent, that it would be the only one of its kind."

"One defendable wall," Bond nodded again. "It will have to be a frontal engagement then."

"I suspect so. But our clothing will fit in so long as we cover our heads."

"Don't let them see those blue eyes of yours," Bond teased.

"And you're in any kind of place to be talking about _my_ blue eyes?" Anderson shot back. "In any case, we wait for dinner to be over, for people to split up to go to bed or do other things, then we make our move, as nonchalantly as possible."

It was a dangerous proposition, walking into an al-Qaeda camp to assassinate its leader. They had silencers to be sure, but getting in and out of that tent might require brief engagement of the others. They were both fluent in Arabic and Farsi, but without any kind of regional accent, it would be a risky move.

"We go in at the same time. We shoot him, and any guards, you leave, I leave, we meet up," He came to rest after the last bit of hike. "Here."

They were looking down at the camp. It was situated in a relatively flat valley between rising peaks. There were plenty of camouflage tarps and crates of supplies, perhaps indicating these guys weren't yet aware of the new state of their finances. To one side were the training areas, which looked like every training area Anderson had ever seen in Afghanistan. There was a bustle of activity, being early afternoon, and the reality of the situation--not brought home by the Himalayas, Mammoud, or the attack the other night--suddenly hit him. They were attempting to assassinate someone in a camp full of angry young soldiers that would like nothing better than to kill them and play with their entrails.

They rested, keeping watch on the camp, but Anderson spent most of the rest of the afternoon thinking. Had this been the only way? There had been some discussion of having another agent--meaning one of the men on the ground like Mammoud--complete this part of the mission. They would have infiltrated and killed bin Laden, but it was deemed too risky--_As if this wasn't_, he thought to himself--and would have taken too much time. Those who had worked their way to this camp were true believers, were top aides or ass kissers of bin Laden and might have been there for years. There was also a question of simply bombing the hell out the whole camp, but MI-6 had reason to believe most of these men had never actually committed a crime. War this might have been, but there was an ethical grey area that had them questioning whether most of these men would have come so far without instigation from bin Laden.

The mission parameters that had been approved had led to his promotion. They had wanted Anderson specifically for this mission, and Anderson had never really asked why. The first part of the mission made sense. He came from money, he was a WASP, he had those men eating out of his hand with the first meeting. But such credentials wouldn't get him very far here, and Lord only knew he had never been on a wet operation of this magnitude. Bond was here for that reason, but why not another Double-O? Anderson suspected he would never learn M's reasoning for his involvement.

As the sun began sinking more quickly, he and Bond got up and prepared their clothing for entering the camp. Their heads were covered, their weapons stowed under bulky jackets and knee-length tunics. They watched the men walk into the mess tent and began their descent. It was rocky going, but by the time they made it down men were starting to straggle out of the tent. As a larger mass started leaving, Anderson and Bond joined them. The men around them were joking around and Anderson and Bond exchanged a few words in Arabic so as not to appear too suspicious. No one even spared them a glance though. The clothes they had been given were a perfect blend. As they walked, their heads swung side to side until Anderson spotted the tent. He put a well placed elbow in Bond's side and the two broke off from the group. Others were headed in the same direction, towards a fire and table with a game that looked like chess. Anderson and Bond sat with the men and sipped water from the cups passed around.

"Canteen is empty," Bond said in Arabic to the men around him. They waved him off and Anderson wondered what he was doing. He came back a moment later and poured measures for all the men except himself and Anderson. He guessed then that Bond wasn't going to rely on their blending in order to get into that tent. As one of the men swayed on his stool and stumbled off to bed, he and Bond exchanged a look.

"What the hell was in that cup?" one man demanded of Bond.

"What are you talking about?" Bond asked. He poured a cup and feigned taking a drink. "It is water."

"I was not so tired a moment ago," the other man asserted again, but less sure.

"The firelight makes your eyes grow tired," Bond said with a dismissive wave. "I am feeling it myself."

The man narrowed his eyes, staring at Bond, who didn't let his eyes catch the firelight, before nodding and stumbling off to another tent. A look around them indicated that they were alone. Anderson caught Bond's eye, took a deep breath, and nodded. They rose one by one and walked casually to bin Laden's tent.

"Sir, we wish an audience," Anderson said in flawless Arabic. He tried to put a bit of Mammoud's Pakistani accent on it.

"Come in, young one," said a smooth voice. Bond held open the flap and Anderson entered. Two guards and the man himself. He was smaller than Anderson was expecting. Tall he might have been, but life in the mountains had given him a lean, hungry look. The guards didn't exactly look like candidates for MENSA. Their guns weren't raised and they didn't so much as glance at Anderson and Bond, much less do something common sensical like frisking them.

"What can I do for you?" bin Laden asked, indicating the seats in front of him. But the two agents didn't sit.

With a glance at each other they quickly drew their guns and dispatched the guards. bin Laden leapt to his feet, lunging for a gun, opening his mouth to cry out in alarm.

The soft whine of the silencer was the only sound in the tent.

Anderson felt his breath grow harsh as the adrenaline in his blood was released. His hands didn't shake as he lowered his smoking gun, but he felt the urge to run, or do a hundred push ups. Bond looked calm, gun still raised, still pointed toward the former terrorist. bin Laden lay where he'd fallen, stretched out towards the gun, eyes wide with shock. He had never looked so human. Nothing outside stirred.

Bond allowed Anderson a smile before holstering his gun and leaving the tent. Anderson gave him two minutes before following. He saw the other man taking off to the right and so took the left. Their hiding place had been opposite of the tent and so they would meet up at the pinnacle. He felt some of the tension of the mission bleed out of his back and let himself sigh as he stepped into the rocks. He couldn't believe it had gone so smoothly. Only one man had questioned them, and then it wasn't even questioning their presence. Anderson guessed he had been expecting security more worthy of a foreign head of state than say, a peace-keeping police officer at an anti-WTO rally.

A hand slapped across his face and he tried to yell as he inhaled through the cloth that had covered his mouth and nose. He tried to fight, kicking out his legs, trying to jab his elbow into the person holding him from behind, but they had drugged the cloth and he quickly lost control of his body. He was aware of far too many hands taking a hold of him, but he was already losing consciousness.

A man stepped in front of him. There was hatred in his eyes and evil in his smile. As he bent over Anderson the distinct smell of poppies assaulted him, even through the cloth.

"Bring him."

Visions of the Emerald City passed through his mind as the blackness took him.


	11. Give the Other Fella Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best instrument a torturer has is his victim's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Torture

Consciousness brought headache and nausea, so much so that Anderson couldn't contain a moan. Laughing in the background indicated he wasn't alone, and a moment later, someone jerked up his head and shone a light in his eyes. He squinted into it, blinded, until his eyes adjusted and his surrounding coalesced around him. He was in a tent, much like the one in which they'd found bin Laden. He could see vague shapes of men against the walls, guns in hand.

The man in front of him smelled of poppies, and he fuzzily recalled the circumstances that had put him here. He was tied to a chair, and a careful test of his restraints assured him that escape would be damn near impossible while tied up. A stool slid to a stop in front of him and the man sat, his scarred lips turned up in a mocking smile.

"Good morning," he said in a lilting English accent.

Anderson didn't even try to talk. What the hell would he say? So sorry I just assassinated the head of your organization, he was being a pain in the ass?

"You know, your people seem to have the idea that there is not a brain among us," the man said. Anderson made an effort to concentrate on the words coming out of his mouth. Whatever they had used to knock him out was making him fuzzy. He thought maybe the stuff had some residual effects.

"When money from our investors is suddenly not there, those of us with more than two brain cells to rub together can make an educated guess as to where those funds have gone." He stood and began pacing. "You MI-6 types. You probably think that people only join this . . . organization for the hatred. For the power. Let me let you in on a little secret." He stopped in front of Anderson and leaned down to look him in the eye. "It is _always_ about money."

He crossed the room and picked up a poppy flower from the table.

"You see, the one thing you did do was interrupt a very important chain of trade, one our friend bin Laden would never have admitted being a part of to his lackeys." He twirled the flower in his fingers and exaggeratedly sniffed it, walked over and brushed it over Anderson's face. "Unfortunately, my friend, he was also the lynchpin in that trade. Though myself and a few very loyal men have attended to the object of trade, it was bin Laden who was the . . . middle man, if you will."

He grabbed the longer hair on the back of Anderson's head and jerked his head. Anderson quelled the nausea that resulted from the movement and stared defiantly into cold black eyes.

"Now, he is dead, and the name of the man who has my money has gone with him," he spat. He took his hand away, making Anderson jerk again with the force of it.

Anderson, though his thinking process wasn't clear, thought he understood what was going on. Apparently, this man was the first tier of the opium trade. The grower. And it tended to be growers who got the smallest share.

And who depended the most on that small share.

Fuck, Anderson thought. He knew that this would not, could not end well. First, the man knew he was MI-6. Second, it was likely Bond was captured as well. Third, he had probably cost this man his livelihood. Anderson wasn't entirely educated on drug trades, but he knew it was difficult for growers to find good buyers, meaning ones who would pay good money for unrefined product. This man would have many fields, sure, but bin Laden had probably been the one to set him up with a good deal. Now, the man and his associates would be desperate.

"So, you take our money, you take our livelihood, you take the one man who can give us all of it. And you think you are just going to waltz out of this camp?"

"I won't tell you anything," Anderson said defiantly.

But the man only smiled serenely. "I know you won't."

Definitely wasn't going to end well.

*****

The man, Anderson thought of him as Rush in honor of Rush Limbaugh, didn't waste any time making Anderson wait and imagine his horrible death to come. He gestured for a few men to come forward. Anderson was untied and then dragged to the long table. The table, he could see, was adorned with posts at each of its four corners. They stripped him of everything and then tied his limbs to the posts, face up. It was just tight enough to cause discomfort, but had enough slack that he could really show off his pain. And when had he gotten so morbid?

Rush approached with a giant syringe, one that made Anderson's eyes widen, probably comically. His stomach dropped like a stone and he felt his hands shaking slightly. No matter how blase he was in the face of death, the thought of unknown drugs entering his system was terrifying. His mind flew to Ross, the boyfriend who turned out to be someone else's _agent_ and had poisoned him one morning over orange juice and eggs. The idea of that kind of helplessness once again befalling him made him shudder.

"This, my friend, is quite a nice little cocktail," Rush said, tapping out the air bubbles. "Something to make you eh, a little more receptive, and something to make you," he paused and smiled cruelly. "Well, let us not give away the surprise just yet."

Anderson would have laughed at the alcohol swab they gave him, but he was really was more preoccupied with the large needle about to enter his arm. It penetrated his skin harshly, but Anderson had had worse and didn't even wince. But the feeling of ice cold drugs entering his veins, flying to their intended destinations, made him cringe.

"But that is not all the fun we are going to have," Rush said, sitting on the stool again and watching Anderson. "But don't worry. We will give it time to kick in."

Anderson was starting to feel a strange sense of euphoria, coupled with a relaxation that made the tension that had been with him since waking flood out of his body. His nausea abated and his head stopped pounding. He stored up the feeling in his psyche, remembering what it felt like to feel _good_ before the inevitable bad happened.

He was enjoying his near stupor when yelling and rustling from outside indicated action in the camp. A moment later, a bruised, bloodied, gun toting James Bond burst through, taking out everyone around him with a well placed spray of bullets. Anderson watched in satisfaction as a surprised Rush dropped off his stool, knocking over a tray of whatever he'd been going to use on Anderson.

The other agent came to him and began releasing the ropes.

"They gave me something," Anderson slurred. "I never thought you'd come back."

"I couldn't leave you."

Anderson tried to sit up, but for some reason his body wouldn't let him. "I can't move."

"That is because you're still tied up."

"But, you just untied me?" Anderson was confused, and Bond's face started to contort into a smile he'd never seen before.

"He's not actually here."

"What?"

"You see, my friend, that other little something I gave you? True hallucinations are a wonderful little bonus to the ordeal I am going to put you through," Bond's mouth was moving, but Rush's eyes stared back at him.

Anderson gasped in horror.

"Why are you doing this? I can't help you!" Anderson said, unable to stop his innermost thoughts from spilling to the man who looked like Bond, but sounded like Rush.

"Oh, little one, I am not interested in your help. You could never help me. Only one man could do that, and he is dead," Rush's calm, lilting accent said. "Now, shall we get started?"

Bond/Rush left his side and for a moment Anderson tried to regain some measure of himself, or of reality. But the tent was contorting around him. He was in his apartment. He was in his studio. He was in the hotel room. He was in the pub with Keith. He was in his London flat with Keith. Laying down on his kitchen table as the other man came to stand in front of him.

"You see, one does not need great instruments of torture to inflict pain. We feel pain every day. We stub our toes, we bruise our elbows, we cut ourselves on paper, rocks, and scissors," said Rush, but now it was Keith, studying him with those fiercely intelligent blue eyes. "Let us start here," and a great pain ripped through Anderson's arm, pulsing up and down. He grunted and whimpered, and looking down, he saw Keith's fingers, gory with blood, pinching at a nerve with his fingernails.

He blinked and felt his eyes roll in his head. He was drugged, right? Keith wasn't here. The tent flashed around him, fading in and out with the clean decadence of his London flat. What was happening? His eyes rolled over and he saw Rush, the true Rush, a comforting smile on his face.

"Now, was that so bad, really?" Rush asked. Anderson closed his eyes, head rolling away. "No, no, no sleeping, my friend," Rush said giving him a few slaps to the face that felt a little more like being hit with a hardback Harry Potter book than a palm. He clenched his eyes shut and felt the slaps reverberate through his head, into his neck and upper back. But whatever they'd given him wouldn't let him lock up, wouldn't let him control the pain that way. He felt every second of it, every small ripple. He felt liquid hit his hairline.

His vision was water-glassed again, the tent remaining, but the players changing. He saw the whole line-up at CNN along the walls, cradling guns idly, staring at him with bored expressions. He saw people from rival networks standing around him, arms crossed, disapproving, disgusted looks on their faces. Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert were staring down at him, betrayed.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"What's that, little one?" Rush asked, and this time he was only himself, not Keith, not Bond. But the people around him didn't move to stop the man, didn't even flinch as agony ripped through Anderson's torso. "You are sorry? For what, I wonder? Following orders?"

Anderson whimpered. Another flash of pain, this time in his genitals, and Anderson screamed for the first time.

"You see, it is only a matter of nerve endings. Knowing where it will hurt the most, even with the most inconsequential thing," Rush waved a mini alligator clip in front of his face. Anderson only saw the razor sharp tines, felt and saw the hum of electricity. "But this is only the beginning."

Around him, anchors and pundits were coming closer as Rush moved away.

"What, did you think just because you're being tortured we'd all conveniently forget that you're a traitor?" Rachel Maddow said with so much scorn that Anderson turned away. But that made it worse, being faced with Dan Abrams.

"No, I'm sorry-I-I didn't mean--"

"You're so fucking pathetic, Cooper, you always were, as reporter, as an anchor, even as a fucking 'spy,'" Dan said, making mocking air-quotes with his hands. "You think you're such hot shit, and yet who is it that's strapped to a table in fucking Pakistan getting the fuck tortured out of him?" Dan's smile was incongruous with his harsh words. He looked pleased at Anderson's position. But already his body and face were becoming blurry like bottle glass and Anderson sought out the comforting eyes of Jon Stewart.

"Don't look at me, man. You sit in that chair and lie to everyone every fucking day, and that's just as bad if not worse than George W. Bush."

"No, please, it wasn't--" but a cacophony of voices shot him down.

Anderson closed his eyes, tried to block out the sound, but they were all talking now. Talking about his inadequacies, how lame his show was, how utterly betrayed they felt about his second job, how they would expose him for the traitor he was. The only one not talking, the only one simply staring, was Keith. And Anderson stared at him with all his might, concentrated on him as hard as he could until the others in the background faded away and there was only the terrorists and the tent.

Keith remained, a silent witness to the agony Anderson was about to endure.

"Let's make things a little more difficult for you, hmm?" Rush said, coming around to Anderson's feet. At first all he felt was pressure, and then a sharp jab of pain, and then anguish as he screamed. It felt like something being rammed through his feet. He looked down and there was Jon, jabbing a pen through the bottom of his foot.

"Why?"

"Can't have you running off, can we? Gotta face up to your crimes, man."

The same experience with the other foot and Anderson could feel rivulets of blood pouring down his feet. Could hear it pitter-patter on the table. Sweat poured off his scalp despite the cold of the tent.

"Now, _these_ are interesting," Rush said, running tickling fingers up and down Anderson's legs. Fuck, the scars. A flash of light in his eyes and he noticed the knife.

The same one he'd put in a man's gut only five days ago.

It sliced through his leg and Anderson screamed. He wondered if it had hit bone. He didn't dare look down to the gory mess. But moments later it was slicing through again, again and again through every single scar, going deeper, going longer, and Anderson could do nothing but scream and let tears and sweat and blood drip off his body onto the table below. He looked at the knife again, but it wasn't the same one. It was just a little knife, a little larger than a Swiss Army Knife. He looked at his legs. Rush had done little more than reopen the scars. Maybe a few were a little deeper and they were bleeding quite a bit, but it wasn't the carnage that he'd expected from the pain.

"There, now you will have two reminders. Ah, if only you were only going to leave here alive. Alas," Rush said with a rueful shrug.

Anderson was nearly unconscious with pain. Still the drug in his system messed with him; he was relaxed, almost euphoric--the pain and euphoria worked in concert. He could feel every part of his body at the same time, which would have been great if he were having sex instead of being tortured. As it was, he could feel every single pinprick of dust and dirt, every breeze that passed over open wounds, every drop of blood that dripped from open wounds.

"My aim, with the heroin, was to override the natural response of the body to gatekeep--to concentrate only on the place of most pain. You feel everything now, don't you?" Rush asked. Anderson wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a nod. Around him the tent was washing away. Washing away in a storm.

Katrina.

His father stood at one foot, his brother at the other. In the corner a dog howled mournfully, floating on a raft in a river of filth. The filth didn't reach the table, but the smell did. Dead, rotting bodies.

His father was shaking his head mournfully. "You were meant for so much more than this."

"Daddy?" Anderson whispered, tears leaking steadily.

"It was my fault, wasn't it?" his brother asked, eyes bright with self-recrimination.

"No! No, it wasn't you!" Anderson pleaded. The agony of seeing his family standing there, young as they were when they died, made something inside Anderson ache and only accentuated the pain in his body.

He screamed.

*****

Time passed. The pain worsened. The drugs wore off. Around him faces of friends, family, enemies, and strangers faded away. The men with guns remained, the tent in all its ugly brown glory surrounded him.

Rush was sitting by him, smiling, clapping.

"You did very well. Better than I expected," he said, rising and walking to the corner. "I know that you are trained to withstand pain. It was why I had to have the drugs, you see. These men around me, their families, they will feel such pains when they cannot eat, when they no longer have shelter. You have taken these things away from them."

He came close again and Anderson turned bleary eyes on him, noting, with the faint note of dread he could conjure in his exhaustion, the mallet in his hands. He closed his eyes. This couldn't be good.

"Now, I leave you with one more thing to contemplate before your death," Rush said, kneeling so he could whisper in Anderson's ear. "What makes an American life, or a British life, or a Jew's life, so much more important than the lowly Arab?"

And that was a question that Anderson couldn't answer. That was a question that Anderson had been trying to answer for nearly forty years.

The mallet came up, then came crashing down on his right hand. Anderson screamed as the tiny bones smashed. His fingers weren't broken, the mallet wasn't that big, but Anderson wasn't really holding out hope for them. The mallet raised again, aimed at his left hand, and Anderson couldn't take it anymore.

"Please! Please don't--" he stammered, tripping on his begging words, on his fear, his agony.

"And here I was wondering whether I would ever get you to beg, little one," Rush said softly in his ear. The mallet came crashing down again and even as Anderson screamed, he choked on it, the pain so acute that he blacked out for a moment. But then he was being slapped again, brought back to the present and Rush's sadistic smile once more.

"Now, there are ten fingers here. I think I will break each one individually, what do you think?" Rush asked, rubbing one finger down the back of Anderson's hand and making him bite his lip as splintering pain shot up his nerve endings.

"No, please, please," Anderson begged, so out of his mind from the pain and the hangover from the drug cocktail that even though he knew he was giving Rush what he wanted, he couldn't seem to stop himself. His usual cool composure, his array of clever comebacks in the face of danger, were all long gone.

"No, no, I think that would be an excellent idea," Rush continued. "And then, once you have fully experienced it--maybe we give you a few hours off--I will cut off each and every one of them. You may be asking yourself what a camp full of soldiers surrounded by rocks would be doing with pruning shears, but then you would have forgotten our little side business." One of his fingers was grasped by strong hands and a moment later, the bones in his little finger were cracked. Anderson screamed.

"The smallest finger is the easiest, you know. So delicate, used for very little. The others," he grinned, "will not go so easily, eh?"

The ring finger was next, and Anderson clenched his fist, hopelessly trying to stop what was about to happen.

"FUCK!" he screamed when it snapped. Rush laughed at him, so hard in fact that he doubled over.

"Such _foul_ language from one who begs so prettily, " he said when he had recovered. But Anderson was weeping, tossing his head back and forth. There was no more heroin in his blood to keep him aware of all the pains in his body, but at this point he hardly needed it.

"Please, please, please," he whispered. Whether he was begging for death or for mercy, he didn't know. At this point, the two were equal in his mind.

"No, I don't think we're _quite_ done yet," Rush said, grabbing the index finger and snapping it ruthlessly, with so much force that the knuckles dislocated.

"Oh, _God_, please stop, please . . ." he cried, incoherent, his mind and body lost to everything but pain and the man who was inflicting it.

"Maybe if you tell me something I would like to hear? Do you have name, perhaps? Colleagues?" Rush asked, looking all the world like he was interviewing Anderson for a job. But Anderson couldn't say anything. Would not dare open his mouth to the secrets his body begged him to spill.

Because the mission was important. He was not.

Rush shrugged without disappointment and returned to his task. One by one, he broke each finger, jarring the others each time he fought against Anderson's tightly curled fist for a new digit. Unconsciousness never came for Anderson, though he prayed for it, even prayed for death, for anything to make the pain stop. But he did not speak, would not speak, and by the end, could not speak; he was left with nothing but hoarse screams and sobs he could not control.

*****

He was roused suddenly by gunfire. Tears leaked out of his eyes. Rush had been lying about killing him after that whole ordeal--big surprise. They had administered the drug again. The tent didn't disappear, but Bond did reappear. He looked no worse for wear, perhaps a little bloodier than the last hallucination, carrying a green pack. He produced a knife and cut the bonds, running swift but gentle hands over Anderson's body, checking for broken bones. He paused at the hands and hissed. Anderson didn't know why his hallucination was acting this way, but he didn't move. He knew the bonds wouldn't let him.

"Damnit, what did he do to you?" Bond asked softly. He dug into his pack and pulled out all manner of medical paraphernalia, presumably stolen from somewhere in the camp.

"Oh, you know, torture, pain, etc.," Anderson answered, though his voice was scratchy, barely loud enough to hear. Bond was binding his hands tightly; the pain was agonizing and he gritted his teeth as Bond/Rush straightened each badly broken finger, wrapping them in tape. There was nothing to be done for the delicate bones in his hand except to strap each whole hand to a board.

"We've got to get out of here. I've knocked out as many as I can with drugs, shot the others, but I think there are others on the other side of the camp that will become suspicious."

"You came before. You shot Rush," Anderson slurred.

"I just got here, Anderson. You're in a different camp than bin Laden was. I had to find you first. I'm sorry it took so long."

"You were here, you were here, and then the pain," Anderson insisted. "NO!" he screamed, when Bond/Rush grabbed at him. "No, you're not him. You're NOT."

"No, Anderson. That was a hallucination." He moved away and grabbed a little bottle, meant for a syringe. It was empty. "This is a psychoactive deliriant. I was never here, until now." But Anderson shook his head. Anger and frustrated tears wetted his eyes even more than the pain.

Bond/Rush seemed to get fed up with Anderson's denial and brought him to sitting, which was a new and incredibly awful experience. He leaned heavily on the other man. And something occurred to him.

He had moved. He was upright. Through all the hallucinations he'd been lying down. He'd been strapped down and trapped in his own mind.

He looked into Bond's cold blue eyes and whispered, "James?"


	12. Fatal Sounds of Broken Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond was actually there, but how the hell were they going to get away?

"Yes, now let's go," James said, helping Anderson off the table. Anderson hissed and cried out softly as his abused feet hit the ground. Now that he looked down, he could see that Jon--_Rush_ hadn't punctured them all the way through, only lacerated the bottoms deeply.

"Trying to make sure I couldn't get away," Anderson said through gritted teeth as James examined them.

"Good thing we had that 'walking on broken glass' exercise in training, hmm?" James asked, and Anderson actually let himself laugh at the joke. Pure relief raced through him, making his eyes fill with tears again. This was _his_ James. Not the one in his head, but the real one with his inappropriate jokes and perpetual hard-on. He had really come back, just as Anderson had believed in his hallucination.

It was incredibly comforting.

His entire body ached, which wasn't a strong enough word for how he felt, but without the heroin it was easy to concentrate on the pain in his hands, in his arms, and block out the pain in his feet. James wrapped thick bandages around his feet and stuffed them into Anderson's socks. Then they dressed him as carefully as they could in his clothes, and started stumbling forward.

The tent flapped open and Rush stepped through. His gun was trained. But so was James'. And the hard look in his eyes made Anderson want to bet on him for quickest shot.

"Ah, but he is my payment."

"I'm afraid your account has been overdrawn, we've decided to seize all assets," James retorted immediately.

"An asset? He is no--" Rush didn't have time to finish the sentence as James fired off a shot into his head. He fell back comically, mouth still open to finish his sentence. Anderson and Bond stepped around him, and Anderson was surprised to step into the dawn.

"How long?"

"A day," James answered. He was hauling him quickly, dragging when Anderson's injured feet couldn't propel him quickly enough. "I've got a transport on call."

"How?" It was standard procedure to leave agents when they were captured. They had to deny the existence of said agents since their missions were so confidential. Trust James Bond to get around that somehow. Anderson supposed that having two agents on a case made it easier to get an agent back if only one was captured.

"Stole a walkie and jerry-rigged it. We've got to get back to Mammoud, though, that's where they'll be waiting."

"bin Laden's camp?"

"In disarray, packing up and moving, which is why we can't simply get to the road."

The conversation served a two-fold purpose, telling Anderson what had transpired in his "absence" and keeping his mind off the pain in his legs, arms, hands, feet, balls...

It wasn't really working. "James, James, please," he said, trying to conceal tears of pain. "I can't, I can't," his gasped out as his voice was lost in pain. He tried to hunch over on himself, but James forced him upright.

"We have to go, Anderson, I'm sorry, but we must," James said and Anderson could hear him forcing a stern tone. He tried to straighten.

"Help me, please," he whispered and even as James' hands hit sore spots the _reality_ of him comforted Anderson, made him stand up straighter. He found resolve enough to not break down before they reached the transport.

"That's it," James said, moving them forward at a quicker pace. The aching in his feet made his stomach roll and he tugged James' hand as he stopped and emptied what was left in his stomach onto the rocks. He dry-heaved, trying to gain control of his contracting diaphragm. Finally, James slapped him lightly on the back and it stopped. He looked up with blurred eyes.

"Sorry," he said meekly. James only smiled and tugged him along, skirting the mess.

"Nothing to apologize for, Anderson, didn't even hit my shoes," James said and Anderson was startled into an unexpected laugh. They traveled quietly, quickly, and achingly (at least for Anderson) for at least twenty minutes before James stopped dead, Anderson bumping into him and hissing with sharp pain.

"Dammit, I'd forgotten," James whispered and Anderson followed his line of sight to a rock face. Tall, jagged, and extending in either direction far out of Anderson's sight.

"Oh God," he whimpered.

"It was the only way, every other way is completely impassable," James explained and Anderson let tears slip from his eyes at the thought of having to climb this wall.

"I'm sorry," James whispered. Anderson nodded and took several deep breaths. There was no way around it, he would have to grit through the pain.

Suddenly, there were sounds from behind. Men shouting and the pounding of feet echoing off the rocks, probably ten minutes behind them. He closed his eyes. _Christ, can this get any worse?_ he asked himself.

"Okay, okay, we have to go," Anderson said, steeling himself and turning to the wall.

"I'll help you."

"Yeah," Anderson said, though he doubted James could help much at all. The holds were wide, he could thank God for that. He lifted one aching foot and pressed into the hold, gritting his teeth as jagged unevenness bit through the dressings and sock on his foot. But he grunted and pushed on, bringing up his arms to grab another wide hold. He didn't fool himself that his hands could hold him up and curled his wrists as best he could. James wasn't even beginning his ascent, watching to make sure Anderson could make it up.

The rock face was at least twenty feet up, which wouldn't have been a problem if he had full use of his limbs. As it was, he was only two feet up and had to rest as cold sweat poured down his face. Taking the weight off one foot relieved the pain in one, but holding weight on the other made it ache worse. He pushed up, wrists and forearms reaching for another wide hold.

"I hate to say this, Anderson, but you need to go faster," James said. The men were getting closer. Anderson felt his limbs shake at the prospect, but picked up speed anyway.

Eight feet up, hearing Bond beginning to climb behind him, he looked to see that there was no hold wide enough for this arms. He closed his eyes and bit the insides of his lips. He breathed deeply and reached up, placing the board of his right hand on the hold. He would have to go quickly. As much as his feet hurt, they would heal fine. If he messed up his hands too badly...

With a quickly drawn breath he pressed down and propelled himself up. He wanted to scream as knives _shot_ through his hand and arm. He gritted his teeth, a rough scream contained behind tight lips. Tears and sweat soaked his face, but he couldn't wipe them away. He quickly reached up with the left and got it onto a wider handhold, avoiding using his hand. His feet scrambled a little but he made it past the narrow hold, taking a breather at the next section. He looked up. Only a few more feet. A few more feet to drag his broken body up. He didn't waste any more time. James was nearly level with him, going as slowly as he could and still be safe, but still below in case Anderson needed help.

"I think you need to get to the top," Anderson said through heavy breathing. "I won't be able-" he cut himself off as James began climbing past him. He reached the top before Anderson had even made the next handhold.

"Come on, you can do this," James said encouragingly. Anderson had a brief laugh thinking of James as a kind of demented Richard Simmons. "I'm afraid I've left my poms and my little skirt in my other luggage." Anderson laughed again.

"Please, my legs are way more suited for the skirt than yours."

"True, you've got girly chicken legs."

"As if I needed reminding."

Letting the endorphins rush through him, Anderson was able to make another few feet on that slight high. Finally, within the circle of James' arms he wrapped one arm, then the other, around his neck, his feet still resting on the handhold. James didn't waste anytime before simply lifting Anderson the last few feet.

They rested only for a moment, James cradling Anderson in his arms, rubbing soothing hands up and down his arms and what parts of Anderson's legs he could reach.

"Cold," Anderson said softly.

"I know," James said, hauling them to their feet. "We're close now." They set off, the sound of pursuit still behind them, angry sounding, scrambling for holds along the wall. They went as quickly as they could, glancing back every few moments, but no bodies followed them, only sound. It put Anderson on edge. Even knowing Rush was dead, the thought of his retribution was enough to send Anderson's thoughts from pain to fear. Adrenaline rushed through him and he put on a burst of speed that James seemed surprised by, but easily matched. The sounds of angry men grew fainter as they clambered over rocks and through rough and sparse brush.

And then the sound of a helicopter thwapping near them. They grinned at each other and allowed their speed to pick up a little once again. A moment later, they emerged from behind an outcrop to find a black helicopter and Mammoud with the mule. He could see men with guns spreading out, ready to take the men who pursued them if need be. Anderson knew none of them would be feeling particularly merciful. The capture of an agent, especially the torture of an agent, wasn't taken lightly by MI-6.

The medical team was with them in moments, forcing Anderson onto a stretcher and inserting IVs and asking him about the damage. He tried to tell them, but now lying down, now in safety, his eyelids were growing heavy. He could heard Bond's smooth voice telling them what they needed to know, including the drug information. A hand rested on his chest and he opened his eyes to the smiling face of Christiane.

"I'm so glad you're all right," she said softly. He tried to smile back but he was slack, the painkillers they'd given him kicking in.

He drifted.

*****

When he awoke he cried out in despair. He was in the tent, surrounded by men with guns and there was Rush smiling down at him, clapping.

"You are such good entertainment. Your conversations with yourself were quite amusing," he said and Anderson gritted his teeth against the overwhelming disappointment. "I do so wonder what you would look like in a skirt."

"No, no, no, no, no," he mumbled to himself. Rush laughed and came forward. "It wasn't real!"

"No, I'm afraid not," Rush said with mocking pity. "You will be our guest for a little while longer, I think."

"Please," Anderson whispered.

"But we haven't even gotten to the pruning shears! I am curious to know how your poor mind interprets them. Will it be the snapping jaws of a lion, perhaps?"

"Please, don't, please," he begged, shaking his head violently.

"Anderson!"

"NO! You don't know my name! I didn't _tell_ you," Anderson protested. He hadn't said a word. He hadn't betrayed anything.

"_Anderson_!" and Anderson's eyes snapped open. Though his vision was marred by tears he could see he was in a hospital. His hands were plastered and wrapped, he could feel tight bindings on his feet and around his legs as well. He was warm. There were large hands on his shoulders and as his vision cleared he looked into the concerned, horror-stricken eyes of Keith Olbermann.


	13. Intermission 2: Hundred Thousand Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith sees the reality of Anderson's job.

A month had gone by since his adventure to the United Kingdom, or, as he liked to put it 'the journey down the rabbit hole.' Keith had kept his part of the agreement. Didn't write about it in a journal or compose a personal special comment on the subject. Because he had come to an understanding about Anderson Cooper. He had always been meant for more than journalism, had always had something in him that said "this isn't enough." He had read the man's book, he should have been able to suss it out before. Anderson wasn't someone who would be content with just reporting the news. He needed to help people. Self sufficient to a fault, enormously empathic to the sufferings of others, and instilled from a very young age with the philosophy of doing for others rather than for one's self.

Jon's party had gone off without a hitch and the man had been appropriately surprised--more at the fact that Keith had done much of the planning than the party itself. Journalists and pundits, comedians and stars, had been in attendance to honor a man who managed to be all four. He had been as self-deprecating as he always was, brushing off compliments and spending most of the night with a healthy blush on his face. Stephen had gleefully made Jon talk to everyone in the room and had stuffed him full of food and enough liquor to sink a large elephant. Keith had been as cheery as he could get, sticking mostly around Rachel and a few guys from ESPN (who were Mets fans) and was only tripped up once.

When Jon asked where Anderson was.

Keith had tripped and slipped over the answer, telling Jon the man had been on a planned vacation, had wanted to come back, but his flight had been cancelled. Jon looked a little suspicious so Keith had asked whether he really thought Anderson would miss his birthday party just to stay on a vacation when he clearly loathed vacations. Jon had looked more accepting then and Keith was left wondering whether Anderson had had a real vacation in twenty years.

And so here he was, sitting at the bar while Rachel argued with the bartenders over the ingredients of some kind of shot she was going to force down his throat. The man of the night was entertaining his closer friends over a bottle of whiskey. Keith was close to calling it a night when his cell phone rang. He frowned, wondering who on Earth would be calling him since most of his friends were here. He pulled it out of his jeans pocket and felt a shock of adrenaline go through his system.

An international phone call. From _Britain_.

"Hello?" he answered immediately.

"Mr. Olbermann?" asked a professional, male, British voice.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, my name is Amherst Villiers with MI-6. There has been an incident with Agent Cooper," Keith felt his blood freeze at those words.

"Is he all right?" he asked, voice strained and when he saw Rachel's inquiring look he took the phone out into the lobby.

"He will be. I'm afraid he ran into a bit of trouble, but he's been evacuated out and will be in London tomorrow night. We're calling because the nature of his injuries will not only necessitate several months recuperation, but constant care. You are the only person in New York who can take care of him, else we will have to keep him in London with one of our private nurses."

_Shit_, Keith thought. What could have happened to Anderson?

"Uh, yes, that's fine. Can you book me a flight?"

"I was about to ask whether you would like me to, sir," he said. There was a faint clacking on a keyboard. "There's a red-eye from JFK to Heathrow in three hours."

"I'll take it."

"Yes sir, we'll have a driver meet you at the airport." And the phone went dead. Keith stared out the window, phone held to his ear as he contemplated what could have possibly gone wrong. Anderson said he would be in danger. He said there was a good possibility he could die. Keith hadn't really believed him.

He reentered the party room and made a beeline for Rachel.

"I've got to go," he said, gathering his coat.

"What happened?" Rachel asked sharply.

"I-" he stopped himself and cursed under his breath. "I can't tell you. But I might be gone for awhile. I gotta call the producers and get a sub, shit and I was supposed to fill in on--"

"Keith, breathe," Rachel said. "I'll handle it. Go." It was a testament to their friendship, and apparently how panicked Keith looked, that Rachel didn't press for information. He had to admit to himself that he wasn't sure he would be quite so understanding in her place.

And wasn't that a bit of self-reflection that just kicked his ass? He'd done that exact thing to Anderson time and again when they had struck up their odd friendship years ago.

"Thanks, Rach," he said, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead. "Tell Jon I had to get out of here."

"I will."

And with that he went home, packed a bag, and got on the next flight to London, England.

*****

Keith spent the entire flight on the phone with producers and writers, arranging for the next week off, at least, citing a health problem with a family member. He'd then called his mother, saint that she was, she immediately agreed to the ruse and didn't ask questions about why the ruse was necessary.

After that he sat back and sighed. Why was he jumping on the first flight to see Anderson Cooper? He had to admit he liked the man. Why else would he have asked the man out for a drink after their first night at the anchor's desk? He was witty and awkward and really quite beautiful. The latter had freaked Keith out so much he hadn't known what to do. Because when Anderson laughed, and his face scrunched up and that awful giggle made its appearance, Keith had the inexplicable urge to just... hug him.

There were aspects of the man he despised as well. This whole journalist/spy thing still didn't sit well with him. Sat very _ill_ with him, actually. True, Anderson had said he wasn't spying on the United States, but that didn't make it much better. He still knew things others didn't. Knew information no one could come by through honest journalism. The emotionless automaton, sans opinion or distinct personality, that he projected on TV was irritating as well. Because the real man was passionate, had a distinct world view and was an actual person, not simply a voice reporting the news.

Dammit, would he ever be able to reconcile this man to himself?

As his unconscious body was rolled past Keith into the hospital room, he knew he had to at least _try_. His hands were heavily bandaged and a quick assessment with the doctor concluded that every single bone in his hand had been broken. The ones in his palms had had to be surgically repaired. It would take at least a year for those injuries to heal fully. As for how much use he'd get back, that was a question they couldn't answer yet.

His feet were heavily bandaged and so were his legs, though more lightly than the feet. He was in a hospital gown, but Keith could still see numerous strange bruises, as though teeth, very small ones, had made them. He looked away from the battered body and that was when he noticed the other man in the room.

He was blond, tall, though not as tall as himself, and while he looked better than Anderson, that wasn't saying much. He looked like he'd gone several rounds with a couple champion boxers.

"Who are you?' he asked.

"James Bond," the man answered sharply. "His partner." But this couldn't be right.

"Anderson said no one knew about this part of his life but me," Keith said, trying not to sound jealous, only suspicious. The man turned cold, amused eyes on him.

"His _mission_ partner," he said wryly and Keith blushed. Well, that was obvious.

"What happened?"

"Mission went wrong," Bond answered shortly. Keith had to suppress the urge to cuff the man upside the head.

"_And_?" he asked. Bond sent another of those amused glances his way before it died in his eyes.

"He was captured. Given a deliriant and herion and tortured. His hands were smashed with a mallet and each finger broken. Deep cuts in his feet to make sure he couldn't get away easily. The "bite" marks you see are where they applied alligator clips and electrocuted him." He recited all of this in a matter-of-fact tone that made Keith flinch. These sorts of things happened all the time to these people, he realized. "And of course they cut open all the scars on his legs from a previous mission."

Keith slumped further in his chair, listening to the steady beeping of the machines around them. He dropped his head and let himself doze, helpless to do anything else.

He was woken, hours later, as dawn peeked into the room, by the near-thrashing of Anderson. A quick glance showed Bond was out of the room, though not out of the hospital judging by the coat left on his chair. Keith rose and sat on the side of the bed, placing his hands on Anderson's shoulders, trying to keep him from hurting himself further.

"Please, don't, please," Anderson said in a barely there voice that still managed to sound like a scream.

"Anderson," he said, trying to get through.

"NO! You don't know my name! I didn't _tell_ you," he answered in a slightly stronger voice.

"_Anderson_," Keith said loudly and with a slight shake to his shoulders. Anderson eyes, wet with tears popped open. Keith was stunned and afraid.

What the hell had happened to him?


	14. In the Morning Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Show me the way to normal.

"Keith?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yeah, they called me," Keith explained. "You all right?"

Anderson closed his eyes and got a hold of himself. He nodded. "I'm okay. Just... nightmare," he said lamely, not wanting to explain the labyrinth his psyche was constructing all around him. To be back in that tent, to be unsure what was real and what was dream or hallucination was slowly driving him mad.

"Some nightmare," Keith said. Anderson was startled into a laugh.

"Yeah, it was," he said. He wanted to grope for the morphine button, but with his hands he couldn't. "Hit the morphine and help me sit up?" he asked, not liking being so flat. Keith reached over and pressed a couple buttons and the bed began to raise up. Anderson felt equilibrium and clear-headedness returning more quickly now that he was mostly sitting, instead of laying prone. The pain in his hands began to subside as well.

"You want up further?" Keith asked, and Anderson noted how awkward the tall man looked. He let loose a small smile.

"Do you mind, I'm all slumped and my hands," he said, but Keith was nodding.

"Um, let's,..." the man made abortive moves, trying to figure out how they were going to do this.

"Let me put my arms around your neck," Anderson suggested. Keith came forward and ducked far enough for Anderson to get his arms comfortably around his neck. Keith was at a loss then.

"Uh..." he said dumbly and Anderson laughed. Keith pulled back a little to glare at him. Anderson had the good grace to at least stop laughing, though the smile remained. He always got a kick out of a Keith who was uncomfortable.

"Lift up my torso," he directed. Keith's large hands nearly spanned his waist and easily hoisted him up. Anderson hissed a little as the bandages on his legs pulled. Keith stepped back as though burned and Anderson had to wave a gimped hand at him. "No, no, I'm fine. The bandages just pulled a little." Keith nodded, settling on the side of the bed.

"I was in the middle of Jon's party when that Villiers guy called," Keith said.

"Sorry," Anderson said. The morphine was kicking in harder now, but he wanted to stay awake a little longer.

"No need to be, saved me from having to take some disgusting shot with Rachel," Keith said with a twinkle in his eye. Anderson felt something in his chest loosen looking at Keith. It felt like it did five years ago, sitting across him at a restaurant, making jokes and quickly warming up to each other.

"That woman needs a different hobby," Anderson said. His voice was slurring slightly, his eyes growing dry and tired.

"Probably, but then she wouldn't have nearly as many good metaphors," Keith said.

Anderson chuckled. "She relies on alcohol like you rely on sports, then?"

"We all have our tropes, Cooper," Keith said.

Anderson smiled. "Thank you for coming," he whispered, as he lost the battle for consciousness.

"Wouldn't be anywhere else, kid," Keith said in a low, comforting voice.

*****

"You'll have to leave for this," Anderson told Keith as James, M, and Villiers entered the room. "Go eat something." He was still foggy. They had given him something a little less strong than morphine so he could get through this post-mission briefing, but it didn't mean that he wasn't still struggling.

"Yeah, you want anything?" Keith asked. He hadn't been able to stomach much on the morphine and though the pain was closer now, he felt ravenous.

"Something big, hot and easy," Anderson said.

"Well, I'd strip myself down and climb in, but I'm afraid the staff might not like that," Keith said. Anderson blinked at his response and then thought back to what he said. He glared. Keith left, backing out of the room, hands in the air, laughing.

"Well, you're feeling a little better then?" M asked, taking a seat.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered. "Painkillers are a wonderful thing." James snorted and Villiers smiled.

"Well, then, straight to business. Bond tells me you were successful."

Anderson gave a full recount from their arrival in Kabul to the assassination to his capture and subsequent torture. His tormentor's name, he told her, he never heard but he had called him Rush Limbaugh in his head. This made everyone in the room snort. He didn't describe his hallucinations, those were for him alone, but he did tell her about the finger-breaking. How he hadn't broken, even if he had sorely wanted to. He barely noticed her wince and look away. He knew she had no choice in the way she ran things. She could not afford to worry about agents themselves being sent into the field, she could only worry about the secrets they contained.

The whole thing took nearly an hour, leaving Anderson exhausted and looking forward to sleep. And then he smelled pasta. His mouth practically watered from the smell of the food Keith brought in as Villiers and M let themselves out. James stayed with them as they ate--James feeding Anderson so Keith could eat--and the three even managed a bit of conversation.

Anderson was slightly surprised with Keith's behavior. He had been attentive. He had been concerned. He had treated him like a friend instead of the adversaries they sort of were.

"M wants me to see a psychiatrist," he told Keith when James had left.

"I think that would be wise," Keith answered.

"Who am I supposed to trust with this, though?" Anderson asked in a small voice. "I haven't trusted anyone like that in so long. I don't think..."

"Maybe,..." Keith stopped and looked down at his empty food carton.

"What?" Anderson was curious. Keith hardly ever looked so uncertain.

"Maybe you could tell me?" Keith suggested, finally looking Anderson in the eye. Anderson's reaction was strange. He gasped and felt flushed all over, both horrified and relieved. How could he tell Keith these things? How could he not? Talking to a psychiatrist would mean coming to London, or having someone that was trusted by MI-6 come to him. Keith would likely be judgmental, would challenge him, would make him face things on _his_ schedule rather than Anderson's. But Keith also seemed to know Anderson better than anyone on the planet now. And not just because he knew his secret life.

Keith seemed to understand Anderson intrinsically. He understood some of the "why"s of Anderson.

"Maybe," he whispered. Keith nodded, accepting. He cleared his throat and started clearing away their dishes, making sure Anderson was comfortable before taking his seat again.

"Well, they're springing you loose in a day or two. They want to keep you on broad-spectrum antibiotics plus plenty of the good drugs for awhile. But uh, you can go home," Keith said.

Anderson couldn't answer, couldn't presume, couldn't even look Keith in the eye. But he didn't have to.

"So, I'm going to be staying with you for... as long as you need me," Keith said, without room for argument in his tone.

"Um, thanks, I needed--"

"You needed someone to stay with you, it's half the reason I'm here and no way I'm letting some British hell-nurse take care of you for six months."

"Six months?" Anderson asked, his shock overcoming a small flash of disappointment he'd had when Keith said "it's half the reason I'm here." He knew the damage was bad, hell, he could feel it every time his his hands were jarred. But six months was an eternity to rely on someone else for all the very basic things one did with one's hands.

"Yeah. We can get some stuff to make it easier. Voice recognition software, some other stuff."

"What about my job?" Anderson suddenly remembered that there was life outside of pain and this room. He had a contract with CNN. A rather _expensive_ contract. "God, I'm going to have to quit, aren't I?" If he could have, he would have covered his face with his hands.

"I don't know, Anderson. I assumed your employers would be taking care of a cover story," Keith said reasonably and Anderson rolled his eyes at himself and nodded.

"Sorry, I'm just... I forgot and,..." he just stopped himself. He wouldn't make any sense anyway. He blinked and sighed with relief when a nurse came to change his medication back to morphine. The painkiller started working immediately and he didn't fight it when the urge to sleep came over him.

*****

The next two days were filled with preparations for Anderson's move stateside. His hair, thankfully, was still brown and some touching up and a baseball cap would ensure no one knew who he was. The cover story to his bosses and to the rest of the obsessive public was that he had had a rather serious accident that had crushed both his hands and given him any other injuries people might become privy to. His producers had told him that he was welcome to come back as soon as he was up to it, and that they would accommodate the injury. His mother had already called and Anderson had had to talk her down and ensure her that he was fine but out of commission because of his hands. He didn't bother checking the blog to see what people had to say. He would have Keith type a general response, or use the software he had promised to do so when he was feeling better.

The preparations made Anderson more tired than the drugs. Trying to get one life together and cover up the other, it was exhausting. Most times, though, he couldn't think beyond the pain.

Sometimes he woke up thinking he was still in the tent, strapped down. He would thrash slightly when this happened, making sure he could move. Keith had gone to Anderson's apartment to sleep after the first night, so he wasn't there to assure Anderson of his safety. Sometimes it took over an hour, fighting the morphine, to convince himself that he was awake and in the hospital. His mind felt like it had been fragmented. Like the light cycle races in _Tron_, every time his thoughts turned one way, another was there to block it off, and the latter were generally the bad ones.

James had come by a few times. They had become friends as well as bed partners. Anderson wouldn't throw him out of his bed should they meet up again in the future, he was sure. But he didn't think it could be any more than that. For all his prowess _in_ bed, James Bond was not meant to be tied to one person. Anderson could admit to himself that that was something he _did_ want. Someday.

The day he was prepped to move, putting on real clothes for the first time in a week, Keith plopped a New York Yankees hat on his head with a smug smile.

"Look who you're traveling with and tell me you're surprised," Keith said when Anderson threw him an annoyed look.

"Not surprised, no," Anderson said with a shake of his head. The male nurse helped him slide into the wheelchair without putting too much pressure on his feet. He had been given special shoes to wear that would minimize impact should he need to do any standing, but doctor's orders were to stay off them until they healed. They said that could be anywhere from one week to three, depending on how well Keith took care of them. Anderson, without his hands, could do nothing, of course.

They received a few odd looks at the airport, but glares from both Keith and James, who had come to see them off and lend a menacing hand should some flight person be uncooperative, kept most from looking too closely. His mind turned to two weeks earlier, when he had been sitting in this same airport wondering how well the mission would go.

_That would be fairly badly, in hindsight_, he thought wryly.

As they lined up to board, James came over and knelt by his wheelchair. "Well, a rather anticlimactic end to a mission, wouldn't you say?"

"Sitting in an airport waiting to go home with two broken hands and countless other lacerations is anticlimactic?" Keith asked. Both James and Anderson laughed though.

"I'm sure if this were a movie it would end with your daring rescue and our escape," Anderson told him.

"Too bad it's not a movie then," James said, still smiling, but Anderson had to force one to his lips.

"Yeah, too bad." James leaned forward and kissed him, which he returned with a little of the passion that had heated their encounters, though real passion was something quite out of reach for Anderson at the moment. They broke a moment later at Keith's embarrassed cough. James smirked and stood.

"Mission partner?" Keith asked.

"Well, I'm not the one taking home and taking care of him for upwards of six months am I?" James replied smugly before elegantly sliding his hands into his pants pockets and walking out of the terminal.

*****

They had decided, because of Anderson's dog, that most of Keith's time would be spent at Anderson's apartment. Anderson could do hardly anything for himself. He had learned how to use the restroom, at least he'd learned how to pee, the other was a humiliating experience all its own. And that didn't even begin to touch on all the things he couldn't do: handle a remote, cook, shower, pet his dog, open a door, get dressed. Keith would have to do all these things. Anderson, feeling bad about pulling Keith away from his life--Christ, his _job_\--had told him he wouldn't mind getting a nurse. But Keith had shut him down, told him that while he was on sabbatical, Rachel would be given a second hour, a more world news oriented program than the politics MSNBC was becoming famous for. Anderson tried not to feel miffed that something he'd always seen as his own purview was being taken up by Rachel. He couldn't blame her, of course. He thought she was one of the more awesome people in the profession and he knew she had a passion for military history and foreign policy, much like his brother had had.

He offered to have his mother over for those few hours when Keith couldn't be here. Keith had conceded that he did have things he couldn't avoid doing--grocery shopping, for one, among many other things--and had agreed that Gloria could be prevailed upon to take care of Anderson for those times. Turning that into Keith going back to work hadn't worked. MSNBC, while they didn't want to lose one of their flagship newsmen, had admitted that the man deserved a vacation after the past five years.

Entering his apartment was as jarring event. It smelled, for one thing. He had taken out the trash before he'd left, but some of his food had probably spoiled. Keith wheeled him immediately to the bathroom, since Anderson had expressed a desire to bathe. This would be their first experience with this kind of dependency. Anderson was loathing the idea already and they hadn't been home five minutes.

With a little leverage from Keith he was out of the chair and sitting on the toilet. Keith folded the chair and set it on the opposite wall. In his latest renovation, Anderson had drastically enlarged the bathroom. There was plenty of room for two men--Anderson had dreamed of a partner, even as he thought about accidentally brushing up against someone reaching for a brush--to move without impeding the other. Now, it felt smaller than ever.

"I hate this," he mumbled as Keith helped him take off his shoes.

"I know," Keith said. "Believe me, I know. But this will get easier," he said with a force of will behind it.

Anderson didn't believe him. His trousers came off, revealing boxers and bandages. Keith removed the former first, and Anderson had to stop himself from covering his genitals. Then Keith began to gently remove the bandages. These cuts were doing far better than the ones on his feet. Rush, he shuddered, had only reopened the lily-white scars. The few that had gone deeper had gotten liquid stitches and those were doing better than the shallow ones. Anderson figured only two more days and he could go without the bandages. Keith unbuttoned his shirt--one of Keith's, so big that it went over Anderson's hands barely grazing--and pulled it off. Then he turned on the hot water and soaked a cloth. He poured a little of the mild soap the doctors had recommended into the towel and scrubbed it in.

He dragged the cloth down Anderson's right arm, up into his armpit. He swiped it down his chest and up again, coming down the left arm. He got up and wiped down his back in smooth, long strokes. His strokes were nearly clinical, but he was gentle. His face, when Anderson chanced a glance, was focused, his brow furrowed as he tread lightly over contusions and cuts. Around his genitals, and Anderson couldn't even stop blushing, he was extraordinarily gentle, worried about the trauma done there and Anderson's own dignity.

He washed and dried Anderson off and then undid the bandages around his feet. Here, he pulled out the disinfectant they'd been given.

"Bowl or basin?" Keith asked.

"Um, kitchen, there's a large bowl, the cabinet next to the ones under the sink," Anderson told him.

Keith leaving the room gave Anderson a chance to collect himself. He was able to gather up the discarded shirt by gently scooping it up with his hands. He dragged it over his middle. Keith, thankfully, said nothing when he reentered with the bowl. He poured some of the disinfectant into the bowl with a little warm water. He then placed one of Anderson's feet in it.

Anderson hissed as the edges of the cuts began to bubble. They weren't too dirty, just sweat mostly, and other particles, but it still hurt like a bitch. Keith pulled that foot out and put the other in, gently wiping the foot and drying it, doing the same with the other after a few moments. He wiped Neosporin on the bottom and rebandaged his feet. Then he covered the cuts on his legs, but he simply used long band-aids on these since none had started bleeding again. Keith was blushing as he took the shirt from Anderson's middle and helped him back into it, his boxers and the trousers.

He opened up the chair again and helped Anderson into it. "I'd be happy to carry you everywhere, but I'm afraid I haven't spent as much time at the gym as you," Keith said, helping him into the chair. Anderson wanted to laugh at Keith's attempt at levity, but could only conjure a grateful smile.

"I don't really play the damsel role, so it's just as well," Anderson answered.

"Food or sleep?" Keith asked and Anderson groaned.

"God, sleep, that flight was interminable." It was only five in the afternoon, but what little energy Anderson had was flagging considerably. Keith helped him to the bed. "Um, just the pants," he said. Keith stripped off the trousers and and helped him lay under the covers.

"All right, well I've got to get a lot of things, so I'll be out, but your mother is coming over so she can help you, okay?" Keith said.

"Yeah, okay," Anderson said. Keith gave him a pain pill and turned off the light.

Anderson was out before the door closed behind him.


	15. What You Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are not as easy as they seem. Things are not what they seem.

He woke in a cold sweat. Familiar faces, like ghosts, faded from his eyes as they adjusted to the darkness. He could hear movement. Where was he? A quick inventory of his surroundings reminded him that he was in his apartment, in his very comfortable bed. He moved his limbs back and forth, enjoying the freedom of movement in his king-size bed. He carefully nudged the covers back and rolled to a sitting position.

"Mom?" he called and the movement started down the hall to his room.

"Hello, darling," Gloria said as she came in. She flicked on the light and came to sit next to him. "Oh Andy, your hands," she said, her voice choking a little.

"I'm okay, mom, it could have been worse," he said, absolutely truthfully. At least he had the limbs left to hurt.

"I don't want to even think about that," she said, with an exaggerated shake of her head. He had to smile a little. Why had his mother ever given up acting?

"You don't need to, because I'm fine," Anderson insisted. Although the pain in his hands was making that less and less true.

"Well," she said with another head-clearing shake. "You've been asleep four hours, Keith should be back momentarily. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah," he said with some surprise. His mother smiled and kissed him on the forehead. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling of "home" and had to close his eyes against the sudden prickling in them. Keith was being great, but your mom was your mom. Safety. She ran a hand over his lengthening hair and rose.

"In here or the kitchen?"

"Kitchen," he said, not wanting to be away from her for long. She retrieved the chair and trousers, helping him into the latter with a harsh line to her mouth and giving what little support she could to help him into the chair. To be relying on his elderly mother for such things seemed wrong to Anderson and he suddenly understood why Keith had initially shot down that suggestion.

She wheeled him easily, though, down the hall and into the kitchen. Anderson had a moment's praise for himself in keeping a very open plan to the apartment. It would make navigating for the next week or so much more easy. She sat him in an empty place at the kitchen table and brought out a couple of styrofoam containers from the kitchen.

"So, what have you been doing while I was gone?" Anderson asked, wanting to hear his mother's aristocratic voice. She talked casually, adding little waves of the hand and exaggerated faces, making Anderson laugh when she described some hideous thing she'd seen on the runway.

When she set down a re-heated meal and began feeding him, the arrival of Keith was heralded by skittering puppy paws. When Molly didn't come running to Anderson, he figured she was still on a leash.

"Dammit, dog, would you hold still for five seconds?!" Keith's frustrated voice came and both mother and son laughed. Gloria rose and went into the front hall, helping Keith with whatever had kept him from letting Molly off the leash and a second later his dog came barreling around the corner, slipping on the hardwood floors.

"Hi sweetie!" Anderson cried, as she put her front paws in his lap. He leaned down to accept doggies kisses and nuzzled her face and ears even as she whined for him to pet her. His heart clenched a little not being able to, but hugged her as best he could, running his forearms up and down her shiny coat.

"Your dog needs tranquilizers," Keith announced he hauled grocery bags into the kitchen. His mother followed closely with more. Molly hopped down and sat quietly at Anderson's side, tail wagging madly against the floor.

"She's very well-behaved!" Anderson protested. "But you're a stranger and she hasn't seen me in two months. Can you get in the pantry and give her a Milkbone, mom?"

Content with her treat, Molly didn't bother Anderson for pets anymore. Gloria sat down to help Anderson eat while Keith put away the groceries. The eating was almost more embarrassing than the bathing. In possession of all his faculties and use of all limbs _except_ his hands it was hard to accept this new way of living. But he didn't complain. Both Keith and his mom were giving up a lot just to accommodate one person. It would be unkind, ungrateful, and possibly insulting to suggest otherwise.

That didn't mean it didn't stick in his craw.

*****

Gloria left a little while after she finished feeding Anderson and herself. She was tired, but would be back tomorrow when Keith would need to go into the office to get everything in order. He and Keith spent the rest of night familiarizing the latter on everything he'd need to know to run the apartment. Remotes were explained, linens were found, and the care of feeding and walking Molly was gone over in minute detail. He didn't want his baby getting fat.

But he would be damned if, once he was on his feet, he didn't take his girl for walks. He said this to Keith who snorted and glanced pointedly at his hands.

"And how, exactly, will you hold a leash?"

"They make handless leashes," he argued, and bullshited.

"Okay, but your hands are going to be in pain for awhile. What will you do when she tugs too hard?"

Anderson grumbled. "Will there be _nothing_ I can do once I have mobility?"

"The docs said that in a few weeks you shouldn't need the heavy stuff at all. These are serious injuries though, Anderson, and it can take twelve weeks for even the most minor fractures to heal. The pins will definitely help, but frankly, this is going to be a long process. You've just got to accept that there are things you just have to let me do."

Anderson had heard all of this and was angry that Keith felt the need to remind him of it. But he needed some kind of control, something he could do.

Keith helped him with his pain pills and getting back into bed. Molly jumped up and took her rightful place at the bottom of the bed, curling near, but thankfully not _on_ Anderson's feet. When the light went out Anderson drifted into a deep sleep, his exhaustion barely dented by his nap earlier.

_"So you see, my friend, they are not so sympathetic, eh?" Rush asked, gesturing to the specters of colleagues and friends around them._

Anderson whimpered. Rush slid the flat side of the knife over Anderson's cheek.

"This is your penance for your crimes," Rush whispered.

"I didn't do anything--" he choked out, cutting himself off with a scream as Rush drew a quick cut in the sensitive flesh underneath eye.

"You did **nothing**?" Rush asked with rage. "You kill people for a living, you betray your country and you say 'you did nothing'?!"

Anderson shook his head back and forth, tears spattering the table as they were flung from closed his eyes. "This isn't real, this isn't real. This isn't real," he repeated to himself, his voice growing cracked and desperate.

"Oh, I assure you, little one, this is all **very** real. Your pain, your torment. I will keep you here forever, to hear your pretty screams, to watch you destroy your soul even as I destroy your body.

"And no one will **ever** help you."

"NO!" Anderson yelled as he jerked from sleep and into a seated position. He cried out at the pain in his hands, which he had used to propel himself up. A moment later his bedroom door was flung open and there stood Keith, glasses askew, eyes wide. "I'm sorry!" Anderson immediately said holding up his hands. "I'm sorry." Molly had woken as well and had pattered up to Anderson, eyes wide and whimpering slightly. She sat and butted her head against Anderson's arm.

"What the hell are you apologizing for, what happened?" Keith asked, voice husky with sleep.

"I... my hands started hurting, I think I rolled on top of one," Anderson lied. He didn't know why. Keith had woken him from that nightmare in the hospital. _But he hadn't been there for all the others_, said an insidious voice in his head.

"Oh," Keith said sagging a little. "You need a pill?"

"No, no, too early for that," Anderson said, sighing with relief. It was too early for a pill, so early that the pain he'd felt when he'd woken had all but ebbed to a dull throb. Thankfully, Keith didn't press the issue, just closed the door. Anderson scooted back down in bed, barely feeling the pull of the bandages, and pulled Molly close--not that she needed encouragement. He let himself listen to her heart and her breathing, smelled the fresh scent of her coat--which had obviously been washed that day or the day before--and let himself sink back into relaxation.

Anderson had vivid dreams, always had. But these seemed _so_ real, like he was right back there. Had it been the drugs? Had they imprinted the images, the pain, on his psyche so strongly?

*****

The week passed. Anderson was fed. Anderson was bathed. Anderson was wheeled around the apartment. Anderson was getting fucking fed up with being fed, bathed, and wheeled. And all by Keith Olbermann. Who had, little by little, become Keith _fucking_ Olbermann again. And Anderson took up his role just as easily.

"I'd be all for calling a male prostitute for you, but I'm not sure they'd help wipe your ass afterwards," Keith had said after one too many frustrated sighs from Anderson. It was the opening shot in the resumption of their antagonistic relationship.

"You don't have to act like you're thrilled to be here."

"You can take that martyred look off your face, at least you're fucking clean."

"Don't act like you aren't just compiling stuff for your tell-all book. Or a Special Comment: "This just in, Anderson Cooper takes shits just like everyone else.""

"Would you prefer the choo-choo train sound, or some porn sounds so you can pretend the spoon is a cock?"

"If you're so desperate to get your cock in my mouth you know I can't stop you."

"Thanks, but I require a little more from my partners than just lying there. Of course I doubt you'd know much about it."

Finally, one night, all the sniping came to a head. Anderson had had nightmares every night, but apparently hadn't cried out since the first night because Keith had never shown up again. And every night the nightmares got worse.

_"You are very pathetic, little one, strapped to this table you cannot even move. You soil yourself, you have to be fed, you cannot even scratch an itch."_

Rush said all this as he carefully, deliberately sharpened an old bayonet, rusted, but still useful. "The colonials, they leave things behind-- governments that do not work, countries that do not exist, resentments they do not remember. They leave material things as well," he flashed the bayonet at Anderson. "Stolen from a soldier by an ancestor, after he killed him with it of course. You see, the story goes, that the soldier had taken over a plot of very fertile land. Taken it from people like my family. And when this ancestor's father would not give up his home, he was killed by the soldier, and his son killed the soldier in turn, with his own bayonet."

He stood and approached Anderson, but he did not jab the bayonet into Anderson's chest. Instead he beckoned with one hand. Keith stood next to him, grabbing the bayonet, flipping it over and over in his hand, blue eyes perusing Anderson's body like it was a piece of meat for slaughter.

A grin from Keith, sharp and gleeful, but evil, and the bayonet buried itself in Anderson's chest. He screamed once, sharply, shortly.

He woke still screaming even as his dream-self died. The door to his bedroom flung open so hard it bounced back and hit Keith in the back even as he rushed forward. He grabbed Anderson's arms as he sat.

"Anderson, Jesus, that wasn't just your hands," he challenged.

Anderson shook his head, unwilling to even open his mouth.

"No! Dammit, Anderson, tell me what the fuck is going on in your head? Or are you just waiting for another breakdown so you can write another bestselling memoir?" he asked scornfully.

Anderson shoved him away as best could, cheeks heating. "Don't you dare question me! What the hell would you know about it anyway?!" He practically screamed into Keith's face and it was then he realized that he was crying. Sobbing really. "You couldn't care fucking less about me unless I need to shit, eat, or take a fucking bath!"

"The fact that I'm fucking _here_ in the first place should have given it away, but of course you're too fucking emotionally stunted to even know how _you're_ feeling much less anyone else!"

They were both on their feet at this point. Anderson's feet had healed quite a bit and standing and walking weren't the exercises in agony they had been. More like walking with big blisters now.

"You _don't_ want to be here! You're here because of a mistake and your fucking conscience! You made that very clear that day in the hospital!" Anderson fired back, trying to fight tears that just kept fucking coming.

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?!" Keith asked, looking utterly confused, but angry too.

"You said that half the reason you were in the hospital was because they called you and told you someone needed to take care of me."

"Jesus Christ, Andy, you told me yourself that if I hadn't found out I wouldn't have known _shit_ about what happened to you!"

"_Exactly_!" Anderson screamed, unable to calm himself, losing all sense of what was going on, losing himself to hysteria. He could feel it. He couldn't do anything to stop it. "You're here because you're the only one who knows! But you don't care! You never did care! You pushed and pushed, but you never fucking cared! You left me there!" he sobbed, bringing his useless hands up to cover his face from Keith. "_You left me there_!"

Silence from Keith, but Anderson continued to sob, humiliated, unable to get a hold of himself. His chest hitched violently through the sobs and he lowered his arms, trying to wrap them around his middle and looked over at the bed to avoid Keith's gaze. Molly was cowering, whimpering, shifting closer to the edge, trying to lick Anderson's hand, or at least nudge it.

"Where did I leave you, Anderson?" Keith said, his voice filled with pain and wonder.

Anderson felt his legs collapse under him and was thankful he hadn't gone far from the bed as he bounced onto it. Keith was next to him in an instant, crouching, trying to look into his face.

"Where did I leave you, Andy?" Keith asked again.

"In the hospital," Anderson wretched out, but somehow that didn't feel entirely true. He couldn't answer why that was, he could only elaborate. "I had a-a nightmare," he hiccuped, finally able to wrestle some control. "You woke me up, but you never-never--" he couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

"I didn't come back," Keith finished, sounding full of self-loathing.

"I kept waking up and you weren't there! How could I expect you to be there?" He asked himself. "You'd only been there one night, but suddenly I needed you, and you weren't there."

"God, Anderson," Keith whispered. He pulled Anderson's arms away from his body and took him in his arms. Anderson was a little stunned, body seizing a little, but he allowed the embrace, too emotionally drained to even push him away. The intensity of the moment passed and Anderson's shoulders slumped and Keith nearly took his full weight. Keith didn't pull away but moved, seating himself next to Anderson on the bed.

"I should've known," he said lowly. But Anderson shook his head.

"There was no way you could have known without me saying something. I didn't want to say anything."

"Wanna tell me about your dreams?" Keith asked. Anderson emphatically did _not_ want to tell Keith about his dreams, especially the last few that had seemed to star Keith in some role of tormentor. Maybe it was connected to the fight they'd finally had tonight. Anderson was skeptical. Keith had featured in his hallucinations in a rather prominent way. But what did that mean?

"Please, no," he said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and crying.

"All right, I won't push, yet," Keith said, and Anderson knew he meant the 'yet'. A few more nights woken up by Anderson's screams would be perfect incentive to fight him on the gag order Anderson had placed on the nature of his dreams. Anderson nodded, knowing no other answer would satisfy the man. Keith stood then and helped Anderson, though he didn't need it, back into bed. Molly curled up contentedly, obviously glad the argument was over and that her master was no longer so upset.

Keith sat with him for a moment longer. "I wish I'd known."

"I know."

"I would have been there."

"I know."

"Get some sleep, kid."

"Good night, Keith."

*****

Apparently, the argument had put a cease-fire, perhaps even a truce, on the sniping of the past week. They were almost annoyingly polite to one another. Keith fed Anderson with a minimum of remarks of any kind, besides "you want eggs?" and "more juice?"

It was strange when someone else fed you. You had to direct them or they just fed you things willy-nilly. Keith had started out just feeding him dishes one at a time. First all the green beans, then all the mashed potatoes, then all the asparagus. That particular night had ended in pretty awful insults. Now, Keith fed Anderson what he asked for without comment, noises, or disparaging remarks about cock.

Anderson wished they could come to some kind of... middle ground. An agreement that banter was allowed, but hardcore insults, meant to be harsh and to hurt, were not. He wanted to be able to joke with Keith about his middle-aged spread and his own chicken legs and laugh. But that inevitably led to jokes about Anderson's sexuality. It wasn't that he was so thin-skinned that a few jokes at the expense of his homosexuality usually hurt him, but for some reason, coming from Keith, they hurt worse than disparages about his family. The latter was, at least, something Keith had never stooped to. As a New Yorker, Keith had already known about his brother's death, and enlightening him about his father was easy enough (after Keith asked why the hell Anderson was so obsessed with all his pills.) But sexuality had always been fair game. Well, fair to Keith anyway.

"Is there any way we can hold a conversation and not be at each other's throats within five minutes?" Anderson asked, frustrated as Keith cleaned him up in the bathroom. His embarrassment here persisted, but it got easier since Keith was so clinical.

"Honest to God, Anderson, I don't know," Keith said, washing his legs--most of them had scabbed over and the stitches had dissolved in the deeper ones.

"I mean, we did pretty well five years ago, before you became inordinately obsessed with my social life," Anderson said, unsure why he felt the need to poke _that_ sleeping dragon.

"We did. Listen, I know it's my fault most of the time. It's just whenever I get around you I get obnoxious and then I goad you on, because for some reason I get to you and that makes me feel..." Keith didn't finish the sentence, just shook his head.

"Powerful?" Anderson suggested, shrinking away from the idea, but also knowing, somewhere deep inside, that's what he'd always thought.

A vision flashed before his eyes of Rush's face, fading to Keith's face and then quickly back. He drew a sharp breath.

"Maybe," Keith answered noncommittally, giving Anderson a shrewd look. Anderson looked away.

He really wasn't in the mood for introspection, anyway


	16. Read Between the Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do others see? What do they make Anderson see?

The moratorium on bitchiness lasted a few days more. They were unerringly polite to one another, but Anderson was starting to go nuts. Without genuine conversation, without the ability to really go out and have fun, or do work, he could practically feel his brain atrophying. His feet were mostly healed, still bandaged most of the time, but be was able to walk on them for bursts at a time. This, of course, meant pacing.

"Would you please sit the fuck down?" Well, there went politeness and Anderson, for one, was grateful.

"I have got to do something. I can't keep watching reality TV marathons or I'll go as crazy as the people on those shows," Anderson said, falling petulantly into a chair.

"And what, exactly, do you suggest we do? Go to a restaurant so I can hand feed you in front of everyone? I know you, kid, you'd be itchy at the first sideways look."

Anderson scowled and went back to staring at horrific people on the television. Keith returned to his magazine.

"Could we just..." he paused, thinking of taking back the suggestion. But he really needed to get out of here. "Could we just like, go for a walk? Or a drive? Or something?"

Keith looked at him inscrutably. Keith had been looking at him inscrutably since their terrible row the other night. Anderson tried not to fidget under the look or think anything incriminating (he sometimes got the notion Keith could read his thoughts if he really wanted to.)

"Your feet really up to it?"

"We could walk as far as I can and then catch a cab back," Anderson solved easily. Keith seemed to consider this before nodding, rising from the club chair he'd staked a claim on and folding back his magazine.

"All right, a walk. The first inkling of pain we catch the next cab," he told Anderson as he slipped on tennis shoes. He helped Anderson into special shoes with plenty of cushion and then into his coat, which thankfully still fit over his broken hands. It wasn't too terribly cold yet, even now that it was December, but Anderson didn't want the cold getting into his wounds. Keith shrugged on his own jacket and they left the apartment.

Out on the street, Anderson just took a moment to breathe in the smell of New York, a gruesome prospect most days, but reminding him he was home today. Keith flopped the Yankees hat onto Anderson's head and they started out slowly walking down the sidewalk, staying to the side for those still trying to make it home. At six in the evening it was very nearly dark, the sun peaking through buildings and warming them as they stepped through patches of light. Anderson felt like a tourist is the place he'd lived his whole life, staring up at buildings, stopping to people watch.

"I was thinking I'd never see any of this again," Anderson mumbled as they took a time-out on a bench.

"You didn't think you'd get rescued?" Keith asked cautiously. It was the first time Anderson had opened up about the experience and he knew Keith didn't want to scare him off. He proceeded carefully as well.

"They went against Standard Operating Procedure, Keith," Anderson told him. "They went against standing orders to deny the existence, and therefore deny rescue to, agents who are captured by enemies."

There was not a peep from the man to his left and he turned, lifting his head to see out from under the bill of his baseball cap and was confronted with Keith's thunderous face.

"You're joking," he said, deadly serious.

"No, Keith, I'm not. James wasn't supposed to come back for me."

"So why did he?" Keith's face grew both cloudier and more confused.

"Because he was my friend. Because there is also a code of 'leave no man behind' that more agents are starting to ascribe to," Anderson conceded. "But I still didn't expect it. I was laying there begging, waiting," he stopped himself, swallowing, remembering those desperate moments of pain.

"To die," Keith finished softly. Anderson nodded.

"Yeah, pretty much." He looked down at his plastered hands. He had the standard hand casts except for the immobilized fingers beneath. The dull blue of the casts didn't really match the magnitude of the injuries and all that Anderson associated with them.

"Come on," Keith said, tugging a little on his arm. They rose and began walking again. Anderson could hardly feel the pain in his feet. It only felt like perhaps he'd been walking for hours at a time. He admitted to himself that in a little while, though, he'd need to stop. They made it a few more blocks, talking about maybe watching _Lawrence of Arabia_ that night and getting Chinese food. But Anderson nudged Keith's arm as a particularly sharp pain went through his foot. Keith took the hint and hailed them a cab. They were back in the apartment ten minutes later. They spent the rest of the night watching movies (or making fun of them, depending) with Keith scooping lo mein and popcorn into Anderson's mouth messily as they both laughed.

Anderson hadn't felt so good in weeks.

*****

There was another problem Anderson had to deal with that reared its head, quite literally, the next morning.

An erection.

For once he had not had a nightmare or even a dream referencing his experience a few weeks before. He could not remember the dream that had left him in his current state, quite a feat given the pain still in his hands. He seriously wasn't one to get off on pain or even manage arousal. His other pains had faded almost to nothingness. His legs were nearly healed, more angry lines that sometimes ached if he sat too long on a hard surface or banged them on something than anything else . The nerve bruises that had been distributed all over his body by the shocks were almost nonexistent, again only agitated when he annoyed those areas. He had been getting regularly laid before his capture and now his libido was reminding him of that fact.

He thought for a second about turning over and rubbing off against the sheets, but then he had a rude awakening. No matter what he tried, Keith would know. Keith changed his sheets, though Anderson was able to gather them up in his arms--he could manage little things like that--and Keith changed his clothes and washed him. Keith would know the instant Anderson indulged in a little self-pleasure. And no way in hell was he going to even broach the topic with Keith.

Amazingly, thoughts of Keith did not help his situation. And no, he wasn't going to examine that thought closely at _all_.

He hauled himself out of bed and paced, thinking of things like his job, his wounds, his capture, that would wilt his erection. They did so with flying colors and with a sigh of relief and frustration he exited his bedroom for the kitchen. Molly, who had been dividing her time between Anderson's and her own doggy bed trotted up to meet him, rubbing against his legs like a cat. She had, remarkably, understood that Anderson couldn't pet her after sniffing for hours at his hands, and now found other ways to show her affection, like rubbing against him and demand it from him, like letting her lick his face.

Keith, he noted with a blush, was up and making breakfast when he entered the kitchen. He was dressed in a suit, which caused Anderson a moment's pause.

"You're going in today?" Anderson asked.

Keith rolled his eyes. "Ugh, yes. My sub can't make it in today and they can't find anyone else."

"So, Mom will be coming over?"

"Uh, actually..." Keith looked at him a little guiltily.

"What?" Anderson asked, suspiciously.

"Well, okay I have to go into work because Rachel is off and her sub is sick so... Allison's going to sub for Rachel, I'm going to do my show, and Rachel is coming here," Keith finished quickly. Anderson was still confused.

"Wait--"

"Your mom has a thing and Rachel has been needing time off and she called me this morning and I sort of shanghaied her into this."

"But, how did you explain--?"

"I didn't really."

"Could I please finish a sentence?" Anderson asked, exasperatedly.

"Sure," Keith said magnanimously.

"First of all, are you sure she wants to do this, second, what thing is it my mom has to do, and three," he paused. "Okay, I don't actually have a three, but it sounds uneven to only have two."

"When I said shanghaied? It was more like she threatened me into going into work and that she would pick up the slack but she didn't want to set foot in those studios for a week. And your mom actually had to fly to Paris for a thing, but she'll be back on Sunday."

"Okay," Anderson said, a little intimidated. Rachel Maddow was smart, unfailingly polite, but quite willing to call someone on their bullshit. Anderson was used to being super-secret agent guy, but he had a feeling she could get it out of him if she smelled something fishy. "I just kind of doubt my ability to keep my mouth shut about confidential matters in front of her."

This made Keith laugh heartily as he set down and egg-white omelette and fruit cup down.

"She's really not that scary," Keith told him.

"Yeah, that's the problem. Scary, I'm used to."

*****

"I don't suppose you're off your pain pills yet," were the first words out of Rachel's mouth as she let herself in with the key Keith had given her at the entrance on his way to work. Molly danced and panted around her, excited by the new person and she paid her attention for a few minutes, ruffling ears and giving scratches.

"Uh, well I haven't needed one today," Anderson said, not really knowing where this was going.

"Really? Awesome," she said going into the living room, making a beeline toward the liquor cabinet.

"It's only noon!" Anderson protested as she started hauling out bottles.

"This is just research," she waved him off. "Can't know what to make if I don't know the ingredients at my disposal."

Anderson supposed that made sense. But it didn't mean that he wasn't still slightly alarmed.

"So your idea of taking care of me is getting me drunk?" he asked, quirking a grin.

"Between that and watching that dreck on television you call entertainment, I'll take Jack, Jim, and Jose any day," she said sending him a look. He giggled self-consciously.

"To be fair, I watch it like other people watch train wrecks," Anderson told her, sitting in the chair he'd officially dubbed "Keith's."

She finished rifling through his liquor cabinet and flopped herself onto the couch. She was dressed casually in a black sweater and grey slacks with Chucks. Besides magazine shots, Anderson had never really seen her attired thus with her clunky glasses.

"While we wait until it's at least happy hour, did you have anything you wanted to do or needed to do?" she asked.

"Well, um, I really need to blog. I haven't done it since I got home and I don't want people to start stalking me," he told her. She laughed a little.

"Woah man, when that starts happening to me I'm quitting," she said before rising and going to the laptop. She brought it over to the coffee table and with a few short instructions from Anderson, had logged into the site and was waiting, fingers poised. He began dictating a brief, impersonal thank you note all the while watching her elegant hands fly over the keys. She really did have amazingly delicate hands for someone who claimed that some people couldn't tell her apart from a man.

"I've been keeping up with the news, and my favorite reality TV shows, which continue to inspire hours of mindless entertainment like a stoner with a string of Christmas lights," Rachel snorted as he said this, letting out an adorable chuckle that was so much nicer than his giggle. "I'm sorry I haven't blogged since the accident, but I promise to keep you all up to date on Molly's newest tricks, Paris Hilton's new British BFF, and how many pain pills I've taken any given day. Thanks again for all your best wishes, they're very much appreciated."

"You have a real gift of humor," Rachel told him, giving him a scrutinizing look as she posted the entry.

Anderson blushed. "Only in so much that I crib everyone I meet that I think is funny and then practice my funniest bits over and over."

"Nothing wrong with that," she said. "At least you recognize what's funny."

"Keith and I watch your show every night. It's very good," he told her truthfully. He really liked her show and how she could be polite to everyone, partisan without apology, and funny and informative. It was like she had immediately fallen into her niche without expecting it. Anderson imagined if he'd been able to only report on crises and world news he could do the same. In the end, though, his show had turned into something he hardly recognized anymore.

"I swear, Keith has made everyone he's ever met watch the show and then quizzed them on it," she said shaking her head. "I'm still pretty stunned myself."

"Yeah," Anderson said softly.

"All right then, what now? Or are we really going to find out who Paris Hilton has eliminated as her British BFF?" Rachel asked and Anderson had to wonder if she had somehow detected his almost resentment, his disappointment with his own show in that soft affirmative.

"Well, if you're seriously planning on getting me drunk later I should take half a pill and sack out for awhile," Anderson said reasonably. He was kind of looking forward to whatever Rachel had planned and wanted to be able to get through it without succumbing to sleep. Rachel dutifully retrieved the pill from the kitchen, cut neatly in half. She helped Anderson swallow it with water then straightened up.

"All right, you need me for anything?"

"Um," he blushed. "Could you help me out of my jeans?"

She smiled at him and followed him back to his bedroom. He was pretty much able to get in and out of shirts without buttons sans assistance, but he refused to walk around in sweatpants for six months. With his legs mostly healed, jeans were both a luxury and a hindrance. Rachel, unlike Keith, didn't make him feel a moment's awkwardness as she worked open his button-fly and pulled at the bottoms so he could kick them off.

"Holy shit," she said matter-of-factly and he realized she was looking at his legs. "Some accident!"

"Yeah, it kind of sucked," he answered weakly. She gave him a long stare that made him feel about five years old, but she didn't comment further, only pulling up the comforter and flicking off the light as she left. A few moments later he heard the stereo flick on and the click-clacking of fingers on a keyboard. He fell asleep to these sounds.

_"In the end, little one, everyone will leave you. Your family, your friends. Even your enemies. In the end, only I will be left," Rush said as he circled the table. Anderson's eyes followed him, cold tears leaking and painting his face with salt._

"No, he's here," Anderson croaked, looking into the blank eyes of Keith Olbermann.

"You think he cares?" Rush asked with a laugh in his voice. "He stands there staring as I subject you to greater and greater torment. For instance," he took up a little glass filled with a clear liquid. "Were I to pour this all over you, he would not even flinch. Perhaps he would even smile?"

The liquid was poured onto his sensitive groin. He howled, whimpered, pleaded as the skin turned boiling red and he felt as though everything would simply burn away.

"Or perhaps you would prefer his participation?" Rush asked, looking at Keith with a coy look. "Yes, that is the key I think. You wish punishment?"

Anderson tossed his head, eyes rolling involuntarily from the drugs, images of family and colleagues fading in and out. Keith came forward, dressed immaculately in a suit, hair brushed back, eyes cold and cruel.

"You see, the thing you never understood about our little 'friendship'," Keith said, complete with air-quotes. "Was that it was never about right or wrong or gay or straight. It was about power. I have it. You don't. Lately, that simple fact seems to have eluded you. I'll remind you."

With that he untied Anderson's ankles and pushed them to his chest, with Anderson too weak to kick back.

"No, please, no," he cried, knowing what was coming.

"Your mind is a twisted place, little one. Having this man rape you?" Rush tsked.

Still, the scenario proceeded inexorably forward and Anderson was unable to do anything to stop it even with Rush telling him that it was a hallucination, that none of it was real. Keith's erection tore through him and he screamed.

*****

He woke bawling, yelling out hoarsely with a frightened Rachel at his side. He felt fat tears wetting his face, stiffening his skin as they dried. He quickly wrestled control, but that didn't erase the look of concern on Rachel's face.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Bad dream."

"Sounded like a little more than a bad dream," Rachel commented

"Fine, nightmare, they happen," Anderson brushed off, his voice taking a slightly strident tone.

"How often?" Rachel persisted.

"Since forever and every so often, more so with the pills," Anderson answered. It wasn't entirely untruthful. He'd always had nightmares, though they were very rarely as bad as they had been in the past weeks.

Rachel didn't believe him, he could tell, but there was a necessity in brushing her off that there wasn't with Keith. His mind, and nearly his body, flinched with the thought of Keith. That was the most disturbing dream his subconscious had been able to conjure yet. Self-aware as he was this one eluded him. What in God's name would possess his dream self to put Keith in the role of rapist? His mind flung itself back to his capture and the real hallucinations that had plagued him during Rush's torture. At first, Keith had spoken with Rush's voice and then Keith had stood back, watching, blank. Rush had said he was asking for punishment. It didn't make any _sense_.

"You look like you need a drink," Rachel said, nodding decisively and Anderson wondered why she hadn't pushed. Had she simply concluded that it wasn't her place? Or had she come to her own conclusions? He couldn't begin to guess the inner workings of her mind, so much quicker than his own.

"That sounds excellent, actually," Anderson admitted. She helped him into his pants again and they headed to the living room, where she had set up a make-shift bar on top of the liquor cabinet. She had rolled this slightly away from the wall to create the illusion of a bar as well. She moved behind it and started pouring and shaking with expert hands. A strainer and a little bit of tonic later she was bringing two very red drinks over in highball glasses.

"Okay, despite its appearance, this is a shot I made up, called a Jell-O Shot. I add the tonic to cut the sweetness, but you shouldn't even be able to taste the alcohol. Best way to start out a night of drinking. Ready?" She held it up and Anderson took a deep breath before nodding. She held it up and he gulped it down, barely tasting it. Once it was all gone, and it had been quite a lot, he licked his lips and had to admit it did taste a lot like Jell-O. Rachel toasted his empty glass with a smile, banged the shot on his coffee table and threw it back in about a third of the time it had taken Anderson.

"That was pretty good," Anderson told her as she collected the glasses and took them into the kitchen to wash out.

"Just wait for the next drink," she said in a promising voice. Some rifling in his refrigerator brought forth an orange, a lemon, and a few cubes of sugar that he hadn't even known he had. She sliced the orange and dropped a cube each of sugar into the highball glasses. To this she added about a teaspoon of sugar each, swirling and stirring them to make them dissolve. Once this was done she added about a second or two of bitters, a piece of orange and a lemon peel which she muddled in the bottoms before adding a piece of ice. She hefted the whiskey like a pro, Knob Creek he noted, and poured hefty measures of both into their glasses. She stirred them and placed a cherry each in them.

"Now, the cherry and the orange aren't in the original recipe, but the orange adds some really cool flavors and the cherry makes a nice garnish. Sir, I give you an Old Fashioned," she said, bringing the drinks over. She flicked on the television and they tuned into _Jeopardy_ each with a giddy grin. They came up with a system of Anderson simply tapping Rachel's thigh whenever he wanted a sip--which he tried to confine to commercial breaks. They had gotten into an impromptu competition during the show. Rachel kicked his ass on the word game categories, but he managed to eke out most of the military history questions before she could, more used to the format than she was, which he could tell really burned her butt, given her extreme interest in the subject. This had led to Anderson telling her about campaigns he and his brother had simulated as children. His interest in history hadn't extended much beyond his toy soldiers and getting to play with his big brother, but Carter had been utterly entranced by the history and made sure they did everything right.

"You don't really talk about him like that often, do you?" Rachel asked after one particular long sip to wet his throat.

"Not really. It was so... we had grown apart and afterward, I was so... Christ, I wanted to blame him, even though there was no blame. Dad was gone and we had been so close to him. It was so easy to just... maintain a distance after that. Even with Mom, there was distance until after Carter was gone. I ran, but Mom always made sure I came back, that I talked to her. We couldn't allow the rest of the family," he snorted unhappily, "to fall apart."

"Don't you have half-brothers?" Rachel asked, and he could tell she was only genuinely curious, not trying to lead him anywhere.

"Yeah, Stan and Chris, from her marriage to Leopold Stokowski. We're not incredibly close. We do holidays together, and my nephew is   
a real pistol, I like spending time with him, but most times it's just me and Mom."

Jeopardy came back and they both got the final Jeopardy question correct, and then debated who had really won, even when Anderson pointed out that they hadn't bet anything for the last round. They decided to call it a draw and flipped the TV over to MSNBC just as the familiar tones of _Countdown_ began.

As Rachel mixed them a new drink, the Old-Fashioned having been completely consumed, Anderson listened to the voice of his recent roommate. He sounded excited to be on the air and Anderson made a mental note to make sure he got in a few more broadcasts. Surely, he scoffed, they could find him a baby-sitter once a week.

When Rachel flopped into her seat next to Anderson with another drink, Anderson tore his eyes away from Keith's really well-picked out tie(which made him suspicious as to whether it might have come from his own closet). Rachel was smiling at Keith, obviously enjoying his evisceration of the newest Republican screw-up. She must have noted his attention because a moment later she angled her body toward him.

"So, how are you two getting along?" He could hear every loaded tone in her question. Obviously, she had been made aware of their mutual dislike.

"All right, I guess," Anderson shrugged noncommittally. "I get... frustrated sometimes not being able to do anything for myself. Keith gets frustrated that I'm not being more appreciative. We yell, we subside. We start all over again." He emphatically did _not_ mention the breakdown a few nights before.

"Yeah, Keith," she said with a shake of her head. "Not so good at the whole patience thing."

"I get that he _has_ to be here, but he so obviously doesn't want to be sometimes. Case in point, his enthusiasm on the show tonight," and now he could feel the liquor really starting to loosen his tongue. He was drinking much faster than he usually did, on an empty stomach, after taking a narcotic, and Rachel was obviously not conservative with her pours. He made an attempt to rein in his tongue.

"Anderson?" Rachel asked and for one she actually seemed hesitant. "Why _is_ Keith here? Why him specifically?"

And there was the question he really couldn't answer and didn't even have an answer to. Shit.

"I-I-I can't tell you," he said lamely. "He was just the only person for the job. Mom comes by a lot, but she can't do some of the stuff Keith can, and boy would I not want to her to do some of the other stuff." He was trying to veer off Keith, he knew. Giving her answers that weren't answers. He decided to talk about five years ago instead of a month ago. "We used to be friends. He was just so damn..." he gritted his teeth.

"Annoying?" Rachel offered with a raised eyebrow.

"YES! He put his big head into everything even when I specifically told him to stay out, and he wouldn't take "later" for an answer!" He railed. This was the first person who knew _Keith_ that he'd been able to talk about this with. James had had an outsider's view, based solely on his interaction with Anderson and his view of the situation.

"I've never seen him push as hard with anyone as he does with you," Rachel told him, stunning him into silence. "Why, I do not know, but you seem to push his buttons faster and harder than even Bill O'Reilly." Anderson was unsure how to address that.

"I can't be _that_ interesting," he said weakly.

"Maybe not, but there's something about you that Keith does find interesting. He's reluctant to give up on things that are interesting."

"It's like he's made it his mission in life to antagonize me at every moment since I broke off our friendship."

"Anderson?" Again, Rachel was hesitant. Anderson was starting to dislike hesitant Rachel. "Do you think he does all that because he... _likes_ you?"

Anderson knew he must be boggling at her to inspire that much laughter.

"Who treats someone they _like_ that way!?" he asked, incredulous.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe someone who graduated highschool at 16 and was always incredibly socially awkward?" Rachel said with a falsely questioning tone. "Listen, the thing I've learned about Keith since I started working at MSNBC is that he essentially approaches situations like a nine year old. When he was going around, agitating for me to get my own show he was showing me off like his new toy car. 'Look at how shiny it is, look how fast it goes' and inviting everyone to gape in awe and then graciously letting the other boys play with-- okay so that metaphor is totally going someplace else, but you understand what I'm saying. With someone he genuinely, well, _likes_ likes, what makes you think he wouldn't go around doing the slightly more grown-up version of pulling their pig-tails?"

Well, that was certainly a kick in the junk.

Anderson must have looked as shell-shocked as he felt because Rachel was laughing at him again, glasses slipping down her nose in her amusement. In the background, Keith droned on and Anderson allowed a moment's hypothetical. Only a moment to contemplate "what if Rachel is right?" Because anything further than that was dangerous. He looked at Keith, with his terrible desk posture and his sharply intelligent eyes.

Maybe, just maybe, it had never been about power.


	17. Turning On a Dime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A redress of grievances equals a change in the winds.

"I'm drunk," Anderson announced in the middle of some movie. It had been two hours since Keith's show had ended.

"That's pretty much the point," Rachel drawled, looking pretty drunk herself. They had only sped up their drinking after the uncomfortable revelation about Keith _liking_ him. Uncomfortable because for five years and a couple months Anderson had been convincing himself that it was never about that, that he had imagined everything and that Keith was just getting off on the power of being able to tongue-tie Anderson and take the moral high-road. Faced with the possibility that he had been wrong, his stomach flopped uncomfortably, his mind was spinning.

"You need food," Rachel decided, hauling herself up and disappearing. Anderson, with slightly more difficulty, managed to slide off the couch onto his feet. He followed her into the kitchen, falling heavily onto a chair. "Pasta okay with you? I'm not much of a cook."

"'t's fine," Anderson said with a wave of a gimpy hand. He watched with bleary-eyed fascination as she boiled pasta and put together a quick sauce. It seemed only minutes later she plopped down with the bowl and started feeding him. "Always feel like an idiot at this part," he mumbled around a mouthful of pasta.

"Yeah, I can imagine," Rachel said, twirling more pasta onto the fork. "Hopefully, Keith won't kill me for getting you all liquored up then leaving him to deal with you."

Anderson waved away the concern, drunkenly. "He was always getting me drunk back then. Which makes a whole lot more sense if you're right. He wasn't trying to get me to confess anything, he just wanted a fucking blowjob," he said crudely, which made Rachel laugh, practically planting her head in the pasta bowl. Anderson giggled drunkenly as well.

"Subtlety? Not really his strong point," she said, stumbling over the first word a little.

"How the hell did you manage a stove? You're at least as drunk as me," he said indignantly.

"Yeah, but I'm used to it. Susan refuses to cook for me when I get this boozy." For some reason, the word boozy was hilarious to Anderson and they spent the next five minutes laughing at each other and nothing at all. Anderson almost believed he was stoned.

A knock at the door interrupted their shenanigans and when Keith came in he took one look at them and sighed, burying his head in one hand and propping the other on his hip.

"You let her into the liquor cabinet?" Keith asked Anderson, which only set the younger man off again.

"'Let' nothing, buster!" Rachel exclaimed, and they both laughed uproariously. Keith just sighed again and gave Rachel a moment to get her shit together before calling Susan and putting her in a cab.

Anderson spent this time maneuvering himself from the chair back to the couch where he discovered that he sincerely never wanted to move for the rest of his life. He focused on the movie, meaning the pretty colors and movement, not the actual plot or acting. A few minutes later, when Keith re-entered, he looked up sheepishly at the stern-looking man.

"You know you can't have a pill now, don't you?"

"Took a nap earlier," Anderson responded.

"What does a nap have to do with the inevitably compounded pain you will wake up with tomorrow?"

"Had pasta, 'll be fine."

"Yes, because pasta cures all evils. Come on, drunkard," Keith said, hauling Anderson to sitting position. "Come on, stand up, let's get you to bed."

"Don't wanna move," Anderson said, head spinning. "'m good here."

"Nope, so sorry," Keith said, getting Anderson on his feet, but Anderson just tried to sink back down. He heard Keith sigh and then he was being lifted into arms that were stronger than he thought. Carried like a baby, giggling the whole way, even as his head came dangerously close to hitting everything.

"You carry me 'cause you like me?" Anderson slurred out, hardly aware of the words in his head. His thought process was slick, like water flowing over smooth stones. That image stuck with him for a moment and he realized that not only did he need to pee, but he really wanted to go on a nature hike.

"Why else would I bother?" Keith asked setting him down on the bed.

"Don' know," Anderson mumbled. "Gotta pee." Keith sighed again, but didn't pick him up which made Anderson pout. Instead he helped him stumble into the bathroom, getting his pants off before leaving Anderson sitting on the toilet. So strange to pee sitting down. He wondered if it was weird for women, but he figured they peed sitting down all the time. He giggled at his train of thought as Keith walked in. Keith helped him into clean underwear and pajama pants.

"You like me?" he asked again.

"Yes, Anderson."

"Really?"

"_Yes_, Anderson," Keith said and Anderson shrunk back from his exasperated tone. Keith sighed, he was doing that a lot tonight, and helped him back into the bedroom. "Contrary to our normal relationship, I do happen to like you. I liked you five years ago, I like you now."

"I didn't think you did. 'Cause you hurt me and then you just stood there," Anderson said, not entirely sure what he was talking about. Was he talking about the Keith in the tent or the Keith from five years ago? Because both had done quite a bit to hurt Anderson. All he could see was Keith looking stoic, standing behind Rush. He shook his head to dispel the image.

"What are you talking about?" Keith asked. Warning bells went off, but Anderson's mouth was far ahead of his reason.

"In the tent, you were there. You hurt me and then when they were accusing me, you just stood there."

"I wasn't there, Anderson," Keith said, and even in his inebriated state Anderson recognized the caution in his voice.

"You _were_," Anderson insisted. "You were and that's why you can't like me."

"No, Anderson, look at me," Keith shook his shoulders, which really didn't help his state but he made the effort to focus. "I was _not_ there. I would never allow anything to hurt you like that. You were given a drug that made you think I was there."

"_No_," Anderson insisted. "It makes sense! You never liked me, you _hurt_ me," Anderson's voice cracked. Keith, who had been holding his shoulders, disappeared into the bathroom. Anderson felt himself shrink back in guilt. Why had he said those things? They weren't true. Were they?

"Drink this," Keith said, shoving a glass under Anderson's nose, against his lips. Anderson drank it without question. Cold water sluiced down his throat, soothing its dryness.

"I'm sorry," Anderson said.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow."

*****

"We need to have an abrupt conversation," Keith said as the pounding in Anderson's head subsided and the aching maw in his stomach was filled with bland eggs and toast.

Anderson really didn't want to have the conversation he suspected was coming.

"I get that I didn't do too much to make you think I liked you. In fact, one might say I did everything in my power to make you think I loathed the very ground you walked on. But I am still incredibly disturbed by some things you said last night."

"What did I say?" Anderson asked, trying to act dumb.

"Well, I don't believe that act for a moment, but you told me that 'I was there'. That 'I hurt you' and that 'I just stood there as they accused you.' So my questions are: I was where? How did I hurt you? and Who was accusing you?"

Anderson wondered how he could dodge this. His hallucinations had been so private. Had been so disturbing that his mind continued to build on them. Continued to elaborate on the horror he'd experienced.

"I'd really rather not talk about it," he said quietly, rising and making quickly for his bedroom. But Keith was right behind him and managed to wedge in before Anderson could close the door.

"Planning to close yourself in here when you can't even work the knob?" Keith asked derisively. "And, no, you don't get a pass this time. I let it go after that nightmare and our fight, but this is serious Anderson. And that appears to be a fact that _escapes_ you."

"It's nothing!" Anderson said.

"It's obviously something, Anderson. It's making you distrust me, it's making you wake up almost nightly screaming. You're projecting whatever was in those hallucinations--products of your own mind, I might add--onto the people and situations around you!"

"So you really want to hear how in one of my dreams you skewered me with a bayonet? Stuck it right in my heart? Or would you rather hear about the time you raped me? Or the time where you pressed thousands of needles into my body? Which would you like hear about first?!" Anderson shot back, progressively more upset with every word.

"But _why_ did you dream those things Anderson? Because of your hallucinations! Tell me what you saw."

Anderson shook his head but Keith grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

"No! You do not get to retreat behind this anymore! I care about you, Goddammit, and you're slowly letting this eat you alive!" Keith told him, punctuating with shakes. "What did you see?"

"No."

"Anderson, tell me what you saw!"

"NO!"

"Was it me? Was I hurting you?!"

"Stop it!"

"Tell me, Anderson!"

"YES!"

"How was I hurting you, Anderson?"

"You were attaching these _things_ to my nerves, it hurt so much," Anderson said quietly. But Keith didn't lower his voice even a second, didn't loosen his grip even a fraction.

"What else? You said I just stood there, what happened?"

"They were all standing around me. Dan Abrams, Rachel, Jon, Stephen, all looking me like I was trash. They told me I'd betrayed our country so I deserved everything he did to me. _And you just stood there! You acted like you understood and then you just **stood** there_!" Anderson cried, finally breaking out of Keith's harsh grip. "You watched him make those cuts, and you watched Jon--dammit-- you watched _that man_ rip into my feet! YOU WATCHED!" Anderson was beyond crying, angry and upset to the point of boiling. His head was pounding, from blood pressure and his hangover. His hands ached in sympathy with his head. His heart was constricting in his chest. He couldn't get enough air to his lungs.

"_I wasn't there_!" Keith finally shouted. Anderson looked up into blazing blue eyes. "I wasn't there, Anderson. I wish to God I had been so you hadn't gone through that. But I wasn't. And you're wrong, I did understand. But Anderson, even if you had 'betrayed' our country, I would never have left you there. I would never have done that," Keith said in a lower voice.

"Because you like me," Anderson whispered, recalling his words from last night.

"Yes, because I like you."

*****

Their 'abrupt' conversation had come to an abrupt end. They had spent the day in Anderson's bedroom while Anderson slowly, sometimes tearfully, spilled the details of his hallucinations. Keith's arm, which remained around his shoulders as they reclined against the headboard, squeezed them at particularly horrible parts.

"And then it was Katrina all over again. And just like then the ghosts of my brother and father were there."

"You..." Keith cleared his throat. "You saw your dad and brother in New Orleans?"

"Everywhere. I would turn around and they'd be standing there, just like they'd been before they died. I was seeing them during that interview with Landrieu. That's why I got so upset. I couldn't stop thinking about my brother's suicide and people just gathering around to see it. I thought I'd exorcised those ghosts with the book. But there they were in the tent," he choked a little and whispered, "they were so _sad_."

Anderson told him the rest, leaving out the pertinent details of who, what, where, and why. Keith might be in on the secret, but he couldn't know mission details. Not when Anderson had been given specific orders that the news was not to come out until he was back on the air. They needed control of this particular story and Anderson's part in it. Letting someone else ask questions--or answer them--would only cause messes for MI-6 and Anderson.

Finally, they settled down to the pillows. Anderson was exhausted by his recitation, but there were other things they needed to say to one another.

"I regretted ending our friendship every day for five years," Anderson told him, guard completely down.

"I regretted pushing you away every day for five years," Keith returned. And with that Anderson allowed himself to sleep.

*****

When he awoke later, he and Keith went for another walk. They did not talk of innocuous things. They talked about their friendship and how it came to an end. They talked about a renewal. They came to an agreement: Anderson would share if Keith wouldn't push. And when they came back to Anderson's apartment, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to call Keith his friend.


	18. Intermission 3: Girl With Her Finger On the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A redress of grievances equals a change in the winds.

Rachel felt the breath leave her body as a wire report came in to the studios. Her breath, when it returned, was shaky along with the rest of her body. With inhumanly long strides, she made it back to her "office" and fumbled for the phone. Once to her ear though the number escaped her.

"Dammit!" she exclaimed, reaching for her cell phone. She hurriedly flicked through numbers until Keith's cell came up. She dialed it into the office phone. It rang fully four times.

"Hello?" Keith finally answered, sounding breathless.

"Bin Laden is dead," Rachel said without preamble, her voice shaking.

"What?" Keith said sharply.

"A wire report just came in. Apparently a task force of British special forces went in about two month ago. But they've been trying to confirm that it was actually him since a bunch of lieutenants were apparently killed too. They were in Pakistan and they're... Jesus, all these men are just flowing out of the mountains," she was probably in shock, she knew this. This was huge news for the new administration and for everyone around the world.

"Jesus, so... It can't be over," Keith said.

"Doubtful, still a lot of angry men out there, but it's a step," Rachel said

"It's a step," Keith repeated. They said their goodbyes and Rachel leaned back against the desk, calming herself. She would have to go on air tonight with this. But she knew she wouldn't be the person people turned to information on this subject.

That person was going back to work for the first time today.

Later that night, after her broadcast, she immediately turned on CNN to catch her new friend's show. He wasn't showing his hands, they were concealed by the camera angle. Anderson himself looked slightly pale, but also in his element. The 'Breaking News" banner read 'Confirmed kill: Osama bin Laden.'

"A special forces team from Britain was charged with the mission, we're being told. They made contacts and infiltrated the camps, taking out bin Laden and many of his top Lieutenants. The camps, about five days walk from the small village of Drosh in the Northwest Province of Pakistan, in the heart of the Himalayas, have been abandoned en masse. Those men are telling Pakistani, American, and British officials that the man in question is, in fact, dead. We turn now to Christiane Amanpour and Michael Ware in Pakistan right now..."

The TV went split screen and Rachel switched it off. Anderson had seemed entirely in control of the story, and she would sure the ratings for today would bear her out on that. He not only had people in the region, he'd had details that MSNBC hadn't.

Arriving at her New York apartment, she flipped on Anderson's show again. As she changed out of her uncomfortable suit and into pajamas she watched and listened to the end of the show.

"It's nice to see you back in that chair," Erica Hill was telling him.

"It's nice to be back and with such news to come back to," he said with a slight smile.

"It's like they knew you were coming back," Erica teased. Anderson blushed heartily and looked askance, which made Rachel frown. That was an odd reaction. A really odd one.

"Yeah, well, if they had really known they would have had me on a plane to Pakistan yesterday," he giggled nervously.

"This much is true," Erica conceded.

"Time now for Beat 360..." Rachel turned down the volume. Not that she didn't sometimes enjoy the caption game or the really strange videos Anderson managed to find, which he had subjected to her one night, but now her mind was filled with questions. Her thought process was leading her somewhere. Clues were just sitting there right in front of her and while she knew she was given to believe in conspiracy theory, this one hit just a little too close to be entirely wacky.

"Six weeks, knew he was coming back, hands, five days walk," she mumbled to herself as she fixed a late dinner and drink. As her casserole(out of a box, thank you) baked, she swirled her drink, looking down into its amber depths as if it contained all the answers. Her mind was leading her to preposterous places. And yet, somehow it made complete sense.

When she looked at the TV again the British Prime Minister was on and she quickly turned up the volume.

"A special force was assigned to infiltrate the camps and capture bin Laden and kill him if necessary. Unfortunately, the latter did become necessary making a proper trial impossible. Let us hope that his God has him answer for his crimes and the deaths of thousands." It flipped back to Anderson.

"Christiane, it's obvious the American government was not aware that this was going on, how do they feel about it?"

"Those I've talked to are angry that they were not part of the loop, but given the high probability of failure it makes sense that they were not informed. They are, of course, grateful the man is dead, but wish it hadn't been kept from them."

"Is there any chance they suspected American forces of leaking the information?"

"It is highly probable. According to the British this was a highly organized, highly secret endeavor, known only to the Prime Minister. Had it not succeeded it is unlikely we would even know about it."

"I guess the next obvious question is what happens now?"

"Well, Anderson, unfortunately bin Laden was not the only terrorist out there. A large threat has been removed, but now we must be on the lookout for another to take his place. It is unlikely whoever it is shall have the same following or the same support system, but this is not something either the Americans or British are taking lightly. This is a large victory, but not the end of the war."

"Thanks, Christiane Amapour in Pakistan. Turning to President-Elect Obama's reaction..." Rachel turned the volume down again and instead stared at Anderson's face. The man was notoriously expressionless since Katrina. She had, in the intervening weeks since the first time they'd hung out, done some reading on him. He didn't _like_ showing emotion, that was an anomaly in 2005, not the norm, an outpouring of emotion caught up in more than just the tragedy occurring there, but the tragedies of his own life.

But how could he be so entirely reaction-less here? Keith and Rachel hadn't been able to stop their own stunned, relieved, satisfied reactions, but they weren't exactly newspeople. Erica had had emotions written all over her face, as had Michael Ware. Only Christiane and Anderson had been completely expressionless. Completely unsurprised.

This was all going somewhere in her mind. She dished up her casserole and sat at the dining room table, staring at nothing, blindly shoveling food into her mouth.

_"I get that he **has** to be here..."_

_"I-I-I can't tell you..."_

_"It's like they knew you were coming back."_

_"About five days walk from the small village of Drosh..."_

_His hands, his legs, his nightmares, his absence... "He was just the only person for the job."_

She stopped chewing. Keith knew.

She didn't know _what_ he knew. But somehow, he knew something that Rachel's brain wanted to know.

And she was going to find out.


	19. His Lies Can't Disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel is smart and Anderson is fed up.

Despite having returned to his anchoring duties two days previous, Anderson wasn't suddenly independent. A handler of sorts had been assigned to help him with his work and at lunch and dinner time, Erica had taken it upon herself to feed him. He did his broadcast showing as little of his hands as he could manage.

At the end of the night, Keith would be waiting for him in his office, juggling his keys or looking at the few pictures that hung around. Some of the people on Anderson's floor, which was also Campbell Brown's floor, stared at Keith funnily as they left.

They rode in their cab silently, as they did most nights, both knackered from their broadcasts and needing a while to unwind before engaging one another. They were equally as likely to fight as to have a friendly conversation. Decompression was necessary with odds like that. Anderson rested his head against the window and watched the bright lights streak by. It was so strange to have his life so on track: back at his job, new president, dead terrorist, and reforging a friendship he'd missed.

The nightmares hadn't gone away, which was what Anderson half-hoped would happen after his confessions to Keith. But talking about Carter and Dad had never helped rid him of those nightmares, they'd only gotten less frequent, less caught up in other images of suffering around the world. He rarely woke with screaming, though he still cried out. He usually wasn't crying, but hyperventilation certainly wasn't out of the mix. Lately, reliving the tent had become more likely than imagining entirely new scenarios. Each time he'd woken, Keith had been there forcing Anderson to move the words across gritted teeth. What had he seen? What did he think it meant? Could Keith do anything? It was both reassuring and annoying. Which was kind of like Keith himself.

As they pulled up to Anderson's building, Keith hopped out first and ran to the other side, opening the door for Anderson. Anderson scooted out, but as he tried to step onto the curb, he tripped rather spectacularly and braced himself for landing on his hands and the inevitable hollering pain that would come after.

He never hit the ground

Strong hands under his arms hauled him up. He took the step necessary to come to full standing and was suddenly aware of his close proximity to Keith. He and Keith were toe to toe, their fronts grazing against one another. Anderson looked up, breathless, into Keith's nonplussed face. They only stood like that for a second. Long enough to feel each other's warm breath on their faces, to feel their stomachs brush as they expanded and contracted with breath once, twice. But then Keith pulled away, leaning in the window to give the cab driver their fare. Anderson stepped fully onto the curb and took a deep breath, letting cold winter air cool his heated face.

When Keith's hand came to rest on the small of his back even the cold air couldn't stop the blushing heat that rushed to his face. The hand was only meant to usher, something a gentlemen might do for a woman on a date. And that was just the problem: he wasn't a woman and this wasn't a date. They were still silent, all the way up to the apartment. Inside, Anderson parked himself in front of the TV, trying to get a hold of the heat that had engulfed his entire body. Keith disappeared into the kitchen to prepare them a late meal.

What Anderson really wanted to do was cover his face with his hands. What was going on with them? Their mutual decision to renew their friendship, beyond simple nursemaid and patient, had been a difficult one. They still antagonized each other, often without knowing it. But it still had progressed. They had begun laughing again, like they used to. They sat too close on the couch while watching movies. They were getting closer than they had been five years ago and Anderson knew part of that was attributed to him opening up to Keith, telling him about not only his life, but his nightmares.

No one knew him better than Keith. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

They ate and made small talk about the movie they were watching. When the doorbell rang they both looked at each other in alarm. Who would be showing up at one o'clock? Keith rose and hit the intercom.

"It's Rachel," came the tinny voice.

"Come on up," Keith replied, sending Anderson a confused glance. But Anderson was as flummoxed as him. Keith shook his head and unlocked the door. Rachel alighted from the elevator a few moments later and both Keith and Anderson were concerned by the serious look on her face.

"Okay, I need a drink before we have this conversation," she said as they moved to let her in. Anderson stared after her and, with a glance back at Keith, followed her into the living room. She was already pouring three drinks, straight bourbon and only two with ice, which made Anderson's eyebrows climb his forehead.

"Rachel, wanna tell us what's going on?" Keith asked as he took both his and Anderson's drink. He sat next to him on the couch, close, like Rachel wasn't there. It made Anderson's pulse jump.

"Okay," she took a large gulp of her drink, filling it up again and adding ice and little water. She sat in the club chair, drink clutched in both hands, elbows on her knees. She looked up at the two of them, glasses riding the end of her nose. "I tried to stay away. Tried to tell myself it wasn't any of my business. Tried to tell myself I was _crazy_ to be seeing connections where there were none."

Anderson suddenly had a very bad feeling and this time his pulse jumped from fear rather than Keith.

"The thing is, Anderson, you're hiding something. And I'm pretty sure that Keith knows about it. You see," she got up and started pacing, "there were clues that set me off. And now I need you to tell me, I need _both_ of you to tell me what the hell is going on."

She then went on to highlight all the little clues that had led her down the rabbit hole. Each piece of evidence was probably making Anderson paler. His right arm, hidden from Rachel's view, was suddenly squeezed very hard. Anderson didn't look at Keith, but wished he could give him a squeeze back.

"I don't know, Rach, sounds like one of your grand conspiracy theories," Keith said skeptically and Anderson wanted to kiss him. He'd done very little to inspire loyalty in this man and for him to lie to _Rachel_ for his sake was surprising. But Rachel wasn't looking at Keith anymore. She was staring right at Anderson.

"Anderson, you didn't get all those wounds in an accident," she said softly. "And that nightmare you had when I was here, that wasn't because of the accident or anything else in your life. That was pure terror. You didn't seem at all surprised by the news of bin Laden's death. What's going on?"

Anderson couldn't tear his eyes from her serious brown ones. It wasn't his place to tell. It wasn't his _right_. Keith couldn't say anything either.

_"What, did you think just because you're being tortured we'd all conveniently forget that you're a traitor?"_ He flinched at the memory, but Rachel's face had none of the contempt his hallucination had shown. She only looked very grave, questioning.

"Rachel," he started softly. "I _can't_ tell you."

She sighed and stood. "Then let me try. You went on vacation over three months ago. A month later a team of British Special Forces go into Pakistan, find and kill Osama bin Laden. You arrive home about a week later with two hands so broken you can't even wipe yourself, wounds up and down your legs, plus some other stuff I'm sure I didn't get to see. Meanwhile the British Prime Minister comes out with the announcement that after a secret, successful mission, bin Laden has been confirmed dead. You tell me not a week ago that you can't talk about why you have _Keith_ looking after you, only that he is the only one who can. This leads me to believe that it was you who went in, killed bin Laden, got some torture for your trouble, and, for whatever reason, Keith was the only one who knew who you were so was the only one who could take care of you."

Anderson didn't say another word. The words weren't _entirely_ accusatory, but they weren't a simple recitation of facts either. He sighed, glanced at Keith and rose, headed towards the bedroom. He heard Keith ask Rachel to wait a moment before following him.

Keith didn't look angry, only weary. "How right is she?"

"She's managed to pretty well hit it right on the head," Anderson answered with a shake of his head.

"That big brain."

"That big fucking brain," Anderson repeated with a rueful grin. "Well, I've got a call to make."

Anderson pointed to the phone and gave Keith a long-distance number. The other man held it up to his ear until Anderson got it situated against his shoulder.

"Cooper, surprised to hear from you," Villiers answered cheerfully. "Feeling better then?"

"Actually, I'm in a bit of a situation, could you put me on with M?"

"Just a moment." A few beeps later and his boss picked up the line.

"I swear to God, Cooper, if someone else has found out about you, I will string you from the rafters," M began with.

Anderson didn't even reply.

"Bloody hell," she said a moment later. "Who now?"

"I didn't even have to say anything, she managed to put it together on her own. She practically knew more than Keith!" Anderson defended. He told her the few things that had helped Rachel deduce the story.

"Well, it sounds like I should be hiring Dr. Maddow to replace you, Cooper. She's managed to figure you out with the figurative equivalent of shoestring and a piece of gum while you've managed to reveal yourself to two people in nearly as many months."

Anderson supposed he deserved that.

"Yes ma'am, I know, but the circumstances were a bit extraordinary."

"They were, which is the only reason you're getting a pass. That and you're too good to lose. I'll send over the paperwork express. Goodbye."

*****

Rachel was staring at him like he had two heads.

"If you're about to say 'you're kidding me, right', let me save you the trouble. No, I'm not and now you have to sign a paper that says not only am I not kidding but if you tell anyone, well..." Anderson stopped.

"Basically, British agents will show up and put a bullet in your brain," Keith answered.

"Right," Rachel said with a nod. "I am a spy buff, guys, it had occurred to me." She looked at Anderson. "It actually explains a lot." She drained her drink and stood again. "So, you actually killed him?"

"Yes, and then I was drugged, had my hands broken, my feet and legs slashed, among other things."

"Tough," Rachel said.

"A little," Anderson replied.

"If you two are finished pretending like this is just a normal day, I remind all of us that we have work tomorrow," Keith said. He did look beat and Anderson rose as well. They walked to the door, but Rachel stopped in the doorway and turned to Anderson. She was a little taller than him and it was a little disconcerting.

"Why go to Britain?" she asked.

Anderson shrugged. "They made me feel like I would be making a difference. It makes me a traitor, but I think I'd rather be that and getting things done, than sitting at a desk at Langley doing nothing." He didn't quite believe his own words, able to admit to his betrayal but unable to admit how much it bothered him. Or how much other people's opinions bothered him. He didn't know Rachel well enough, didn't trust her enough, to let her that far in. The fact that she wasn't shoving condemnations down his throat was encouraging, however.

Keith, ever the gentlemen, walked Rachel downstairs and got her a cab. It made Anderson smile to see Keith so caring about Rachel's safety. When he returned to the apartment he helped Anderson get ready for bed. His teeth were brushed--thank God for electric toothbrushes-- and he used the restroom.

"Well, exciting day," Keith commented.

"Not particularly," Anderson snorted.

"You mean someone figuring out your secret identity based on little more than blind conjecture rather than stumbling over it looking for a caterer isn't exciting?" Keith asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Well to be fair, you got dragged out of your apartment to Britain for four days. This time we just had to have a civil conversation."

Keith pulled the pajama pants over Anderson's boxer-briefs, warm breath managing to stir the scant hairs on Anderson's legs. It took everything in him to control his reaction to it. He helped Anderson with the buttons of his dress shirt and little shocks went through Anderson. How was it that they had been doing this same routine every night for weeks and only now did Anderson feel the effects of it? Was Keith going slower? It certainly felt like it, as Anderson could hear each button flick out of its hole, the rustle of starch against skin. As Keith's fingertips accidently brushed his abdomen, making it contract, Anderson's intake of breath was audible and Keith's eyes caught his. Anderson couldn't speak and though his mouth worked, Keith said nothing either. He broke eye contact and grabbed at a t-shirt, one of Keith's, big, soft, and smelling like him despite numerous washings. He helped it over Anderson's head and arms, even though Anderson could do this part for himself--burrowing into it and shimmying it on.

Keith rose from his crouch and looked around the room as though he'd forgotten something. But this was routine, they hadn't forgotten anything. Anderson shoved the covers aside and got into bed. A moment later Molly came in and jumped on the bed, settling down with a little huff that made both him and Keith smile as her eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them.

"Well," Keith cleared his throat. "Good night."

"Good night," Anderson returned softly.

Anderson lay awake a long time, those brief touches haunting him, Keith's dissipated warmth staying with him.

*****

Waking the next morning was an exercise in a different kind of pain and Anderson was forced to admit that yesterday had been more stressful than he'd realized. His back was a mass of tension. He groaned as he sat up and tried twisting around to work out the kinks. His back cracked loudly and he moaned loudly at the relief that brought. But he was still tense.

"You look like an ad for death," Keith greeted him when he entered the kitchen.

"Thank you, jackass, that's a fairly accurate description of how I feel," Anderson said, collapsing heavily into a chair, surprising a groan out of him as sore muscles were jarred.

"What the hell did you do to yourself?" Keith asked, setting down sausages and gluten-free bagels.

"I must have slept in one position all night," Anderson said.

"No nightmares?" Keith asked casually.

Anderson shrugged. "None that I can recall. The stuff yesterday might have been a little too much," he admitted.

"You seemed a bit..." Keith rocked his head back and forth, unable to come up with a suitable word.

"It's just strange going from nobody knowing to two people knowing in the space of three months," Anderson skirted.

Keith didn't look convinced, and with good reason. It had been a pretty bullshit answer.

"That night, the night you told me about your hallucinations--"

"You mean the night you forced them out of me?" Anderson asked with a wry grin.

"You say 'forced', I say was hugely persuasive," Keith said. "But yes, that night. You were talking about all the people standing around accusing you. I admit I was selfishly thinking of only my _own_ role--"

"I think you mean egomaniacally."

"But," Keith continued slightly louder, ignoring Anderson's interruption. "I believe I remember you mentioning that Rachel was one of them. The ones accusing you, I mean."

"Yes," Anderson said, sighing. "She was."

"And now she knows."

"Yes."

"And how do you feel about that?" Keith asked. "And Jesus, could I sound anymore like a shrink?"

Anderson chuckled a little, eyes downcast. "It was... it was okay, wonderful compared to my... to my hallucination. Getting to know her helped, I think. She doesn't seem like the type to be that... venomous."

She really wasn't, but that didn't mean that the accusation hadn't stung. Knowing that _Rachel_ wouldn't say something like that didn't really change anything. There were certainly others, he held back a snort as he thought of Dan Abrams, who would likely stay true to Anderson's imaginings. He shook his head, dispelling the train of thought and turning to his breakfast which Keith was holding up to his mouth with a raised eyebrow.

*****

_He stared around the tent at the people he called colleagues and friends. They stared back, faces blank, neither defending him from acid words or rushing forward to help him. Even Erica, whom he thought he'd grown so close to, stared at him as though she didn't recognize him._

The invective thrown at him was getting worse, louder, but it faded, as though a sound screen was thrown up--audible, but tinny. Rush stepped forward.

"All around you, the people you know. The people you share desk space with, the people you share jokes and meals with," he said, softly gesturing to the CNN crew. "They ignore you. They pretend you do not exist. You are faceless, you are nameless, you are nothing. Is that not what you have always striven to be? So, why complain? You are a pretty face and a blank slate, one that can be replaced at any time. It is the story of your professional life, no? You lose popularity, you lose your good looks, you lose your life and they simply punch out another one." He pointed and Anderson was horrified to see another him. This one had dark windswept hair, tall and broad. But unmistakably him.

"He will replace you. Behind the desk, behind the gun, it does not matter. Because you are nothing."

He didn't wake with a start. He simply awoke, eyes popping open on his darkening office. The sun barely illuminated the far wall and reflections of the light bounced into Anderson's eyes, making him squint. He came to a sitting position, running through the dream again. If his subconscious kept going like this he wouldn't even need therapy. It was like every insecurity, every fear, every moment of indecision in his life was suddenly before him, taunting him, making him scrutinize himself in a way he had never done, not even in his book. He was pretty fucking sick of it.

How was it that his tormenter had become his own private therapist in his head? Rush's only aim had been misery, not antemortem self-examination.

So _what_ if he was easily replaceable, at either job? He hadn't gotten into either business to get famous or become a "personality." Fame and glory had not been his aims. Only doing the work and doing it well. Being replaceable was only an insult if they couldn't find someone just as good--not that he flattered himself, but M hadn't promoted him because he looked good in a suit, though that might have been CNN's reasoning. After all, there was a reason Double-O agents were assigned numbers instead of names.

His door opened and Erica stuck her head in. "You know, we could play that Wii I got you," she said and Anderson stared at her confusedly. "If you're bored, I mean. Sleeping all awkward on your couch must have done a number on your back."

"And your suggestion is exercise?" he asked with a grin.

"Hey, with the foot thing you don't even need hands," she said before grinning evilly. "Unless you want to play DDR?"

"What is DDR and why do I suspect I'm gonna say no?"

"You've never heard of Dance Dance Revolution!?" She looked appalled. "Oh Andy, you are woefully undereducated." He giggled as she came in and started plugging in the Wii he kept on a shelf for decorative purposes. She left the office for a few moments before returning, hair flying away and face flushed. In her arms were two large-ish mats which she placed directly in front of his stack of flat screens.

"Are you sure this isn't going to hurt?" he asked skeptically as she booted the game system up.

"Take half a pill, if you want. It can get kind of intense if you actually do the steps," she sent him a warning glare.

"Okay, okay!" he held up his plastered appendages in surrender. Instead of a pill he had her help him knock back a couple Tylenol. She pulled off their shoes and they took their places on the mats.

"Just follow the arrows," Erica said. "Right, right, right, left, left, ANDERSON! Do it right!"

Anderson laughed, merrily.


	20. Gonna Break the Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson is a really hoopy frood. He's a guy who really knows where his towel is. Now.

"I think I should go to a therapist," Anderson announced as Keith prepared their late meal.

"Yeah? Think you're ready for that?" Keith asked distractedly.

"I think I'm tired of the man who tortured me for hours playing the role of psychiatrist," Anderson said dryly.

"That's fairly disturbing," Keith commented.

"You're telling me. I took a nap today and had this dream that was just... well ridiculous really. I know I have enough unacknowledged baggage to back up an airport conveyor belt, but I'm also pretty sure that leaving my subconscious in charge of figuring out those issues is _bad_. I know I hate talking about myself, that is _something_, at least, I know about myself, but I did learn my lesson after twenty years of plain old suppression."

"No arguments here," Keith said sliding two grilled cheese sandwiches and homemade french fries onto the table. Anderson would say this for the whole no-hands deal: his food intake had certainly diversified. Keith was incredibly nitpick-y about food, and not just whether it was gluten-free. They couldn't have the same thing for dinner two nights in a row (let alone two months in a row, as was Anderson's wont) and even something simple, like the grilled cheese he was feeding him, was a production. There appeared to be at least three types of cheeses on the thick bread and the french fries were doused in seasonings.

"So, will MI-6 assign someone?" Keith asked as Anderson finished eating.

"Yeah, I should call M tomorrow morning. She'll either find someone here or send someone."

"And if she sends someone, this person... what? Chills out in a hotel until you're done with them?"

"Could be," Anderson said. "Likely it will be someone from New York who they've already vetted and signed with the organization. I'm naturally distrustful of therapists, but M won't compromise the agency with someone who will blab about me."

Keith nodded, stuffing another ketchup-doused fry into his mouth. Anderson wondered why the man had put so many different spices on the fries if he was just going to cover up the taste with condiments.

When they stood from the table, Anderson groaned as the nap on his couch and his back pain from the previous night came back to haunt him.

"You're still aching?" Keith asked.

"Yeah, ow, and Dance, Dance, Revolution probably didn't help," Anderson said through gritted teeth as he twisted his upper body.

"First off, I don't want to know, and second, how about a massage?" he asked, clearing away plates.

"Seriously?" Anderson asked, eyes wide.

"Sure, not like a hot oils and ocean waves massage," he said derisively. "I'm talking about one that will actually _help_ you."

"Rearranging my spine, basically," Anderson guessed.

"It probably needs it," Keith said.

"Well, all right," Anderson said. It did sound like a fantastic idea. He hadn't had a massage since his last boyfriend, and no, he didn't count Bond amongst that group, so therefore it had been a _very_ long time. They headed for Anderson's bedroom.

"Let's get you ready for bed first, if you fall asleep on me I'll just leave you dressed." Their nightly routine went quickly and Anderson got himself face down on the bed, letting his exhaustion from playing really active video games and his broadcast turn his limbs to jelly. Belly full and eyes drooping, the only thing keeping him from sleep were the restless knots in his back.

Keith had disappeared into his own bedroom to put on his own pajamas. Anderson couldn't help but smile at the threadbare Yankee's t-shirt and sweatpants. His eyes slipped closed for a moment until he felt the weight on the bed shift. Warmth all along his thighs indicated Keith's position above him and he restrained a gasp as his body responded the only way it knew how these days. If he could have he would have cast his eyes upward in supplication, begging for his body to behave just once.

Thank God he was on his stomach.

He nearly yowled as Keith dove into his "massage," which seemed to consist of digging knuckles and elbows into particularly stubborn knots. As he worked them, Anderson grunted with discomfort. He had to admit the man knew what he was doing, which suggested a familiarity with a physique that wouldn't break under those hands. He stopped that thought in its tracks.

He did notice, however, that Keith stayed propped on his knees, never lowering himself to sit on Anderson's legs, or get closer. The fluctuation of heat covering his backside suggested that he was leaning into certain moves, but immediately springing up if he got too close. Soon, most of the knots had gone and Keith was soothing his back with long, strong strokes, fingers tickling his sides, only galvanizing a certain part of his anatomy. A base urge rose within him to thrust his ass back into Keith, to see if he was affected. He knew he had been putting up quite a racket during the massage. Anyone on the other side of the door, or within ten city blocks, would think something else was going on and Anderson was daringly curious to find out if Keith thought the same.

"Mmm," he moaned deliberately, though it was certainly warranted. He listened and could swear he heard a faint intake of breath. But he could have been imagining it. Probably was imagining it.

Christ, he was a horny son of a bitch.

"That should do it," Keith said, rolling off the bed. He swept the comforter out from under Anderson's prone body and laid it over him.

"Did it and about ten thousand other great things," Anderson mumbled through a sea of lust and sleepiness.

"I'll leave you to pass out now," Keith's voice was definitely amused.

"Your own damn fault," Anderson managed to retort before actually passing out.

*****

Therapy turned out not to be the chore, torture, choose your adjective, that Anderson thought it would be. The man MI-6 had assigned was empathetic, but tough, never letting Anderson waffle out of anything.

"You can sit there and bullshit your way through this, or you can stop wasting both my time and yours and tell the truth," he'd said after one day of Anderson saying nothing of real substance at all.

If he hadn't looked so much like a graying, woeful basset hound, Anderson might have mistaken him for Keith. His voice, neither as deep or sonorous as Keith's, was soothing, not monotone, but like someone you might want to read you a bedtime story. Even if that bedtime story included gory death and the like. They had an appointment every other day, or after every night Anderson had a nightmare. Anderson was down to about two nightmares--which he could almost reclassify as merely bad dreams--a week.

Keith was careful not to pry, though Anderson could see him bursting with questions. When asked 'how things went', Anderson was noncommittal, generally still too caught up in whatever he'd talked about that day. Keith usually went back to cooking or cleaning, a furrowed brow in place but no further questions forthcoming.

Control had always been something Anderson prided himself on having copious amounts of. During Katrina he lost it, lost it on _camera_, which was worse. He felt like he hadn't had it for the last two months. And now he was gathering it to him again, reveling in it. He had been trained to maintain that control and one night had shattered it. He felt like he was regaining something of the person who had sat in front of twenty dangerous, rich men and conned them into giving him their money. He felt like the man who could walk into a terrorist's camp and calmly shoot their leader. Confidence and composure, the hallmarks of any Double-O worth his suit, were once again his.

There was only one place Anderson liked to lose control. In the bedroom. And things on that front had been painfully dry. Since the back rub--pounding, more like--Keith had been distant. He had to touch for some things of course, but his motions, when washing Anderson or feeding him, were almost tentative, no longer even clinical. It was like he'd felt he'd overstepped his bounds. Anderson didn't know how to tell him that his bounds were way closer than he thought they were. Didn't know if he even should.

Christmas had passed with nary a whisper. They had gone to see their families in the morning, together, which Anderson hoped was significant. Though Keith was now acquainted with Anderson's mother, whom they had Christmas Eve dinner with, meeting Keith's family was strange. Not uncomfortable, though: his parents were good people who didn't even raise an eyebrow at the man sitting across from them with two broken hands while their son fed him lunch. Afterwards they'd caught a car to Massachusetts and spent the evening with Rachel and Susan, the latter of whom scolded Keith for letting Rachel and Anderson get drunk. Watching Keith gape incredulously at the accusation had been the highlight of the evening.

The new year was upon them and Anderson once again prepared himself to make a resolution he wouldn't keep. The year before he'd broken his resolution to blog more often almost immediately. He had several ideas, but each one was as impossible as the next. He supposed he couldn't resolve to get these casts off as soon as possible. That was hopefully a foregone conclusion for the next year.

"I'm incredibly suspect about this 'party'," Keith said as he emerged from his bedroom, pulling a sweater over his t-shirt.

"You're suspect about a New Years Eve Party that doesn't make you wear a tux, do anything hokey outside of drinking heavily and counting down to midnight, and features most of our mutual friends?" Anderson asked, silently admiring the thick charcoal-colored sweater.

"Exactly, it sounds too good to be true."

"It probably will be," Anderson said, undaunted. "But I haven't seen some of these people in months and I need to apologize to Jon for not being at his birthday party."

"All right, all right," Keith grumbled, but Anderson grinned, knowing it was all for show.

"I just wish I could figure out a way to drink without needing you or someone else," Anderson said.

"Don't mention that wish around any of Stewart's minions, they're likely to attempt carpentry after several glasses of champagne," Keith warned, making Anderson giggle.

"I won't. I won't even mention when I'm thirsty," Anderson said as Keith helped him into his coat.

Said New Years Eve party was being held at Brian Williams' place. He had issued a kind of general invitation to all newsmen and pundits no matter the network. Walking in to some raised eyebrows, though none of them among the CNN people, Anderson could see that most of FOX News had shunned the invitation.

"You look like a serious gimp-boy," said a jovial Jon Stewart as he and his wife came over. Anderson giggled, like he always did even at Jon's lamest jokes.

"Believe me when I tell you it's a little more than looks," Keith interjected. He gestured towards the drinks table and Anderson nodded. The other man moved away and Anderson stayed to talk to Jon. He apologized for being on vacation at the time of his party and told him he wished he'd been there instead of getting his hands crushed. Jon had made the appropriate jokes, again not having to do much to get Anderson going.

"Drink now?" Keith asked as he came back to his side.

"Yes, please," he said, needing to quench his throat. Keith held up the glass and Anderson drained about half of it. Out of the corner of his eye he could some people eyeing them speculatively, but he didn't allow it bother him. Having a handler and Erica feeding him the past couple weeks had made him lose some of his shyness about this kind of situation. A look around the room revealed a few people he really didn't want to see, like Dan Abrams with his gorgeous model-girlfriend. Anderson didn't _want_ to have a problem with Dan. But while the man had been surprisingly kind to him about his cancer, most times he talked smack about him. His therapist had told him that his own perceived weaknesses had been projected on to faces where it would either seen reasonable to hear them back--like Dan-- or incredibly hurtful--like Jon. Anderson was ready to forgive Dan a great deal for the continued healing of his psyche.

The night passed much the same way and Keith and Anderson were never far from each others' side. Not only was it easier, but their isolation over the past month had meant that while their comfort with each other had grown, their alienation with others had grown too. At one point nearly every person was dancing with their wife, girlfriend, or date and they stood to the side, awkward ducks the both of them. At least Anderson was awkward. Keith stood close to him, watching as though the dancing were a baseball game.

"We could..." Anderson paused to clear his throat. "We could dance."

Keith looked him intently and Anderson wondered what questions, or perhaps insults, were festering in his head. He looked away, face burning hotly.

"Or not," he said to himself.

But Keith's hand was on his back and when he looked up the other man was giving him a small smile. Anderson returned it and led his friend onto the floor. He turned to face him and held up his gimped hands with a rueful grin. But Keith didn't even pause before taking his right in his left and raising Anderson's left arm to his shoulder. His other arm wrapped itself around Anderson's waist and they began to sway lightly.

Anderson knew he was essentially outing himself. He thought maybe he should be alarmed about it. He had kept it so close to his vest, had made it such a private matter in a way his past wasn't. But perhaps it was time for a new New Years Resolution.

_This year I will try to be more honest about who I am, since I can't be honest about what I am._

*****

"People are staring," Keith said lowly in his ear. But when Anderson snuck a glance at his face, his expression was smug.

"And you love it."

"I like causing a bit of a ruckus, I admit," Keith said. Anderson ducked his head and chuckled. He grew more serious as one slow song turned into another.

"Keith?" Anderson asked, wondering whether he was about to open a can of worms.

"Hmm?" He looked down and this time Anderson held his questioning gaze.

"What's going on with us?"

Keith frowned and came to a standstill, though his hands didn't leave Anderson, he still held him close.

"I mean, you give me that back rub and then you don't touch me and now we're dancing and I'm babbling, so I guess I'm just confused."

Keith sighed and began swaying again. Anderson cursed himself and lowered his head. A sudden weight on his chest made him close his eyes. He didn't know it would hurt so badly just to confront the... thing between them. Five years ago it had been easy to ignore it. Keith had been a jackass, Anderson had been an emotionally closed-off automaton. Now, having found a balance in both Keith and himself Anderson had found it was not so easy to just ignore it.

"I stopped touching you because if I hadn't I wouldn't have been able to stop," Keith said suddenly.

It was like a punch in the gut, and having had that happen several times in his life, Anderson knew it was an accurate description. He took a quick breath and looked up into Keith's serious face.

"Did you just--?"

"Yes. And in the interest of full disclosure I should say that I have been well, reexamining my feelings since I learned your," he leaned in close with a sly grin, "true identity." He waggled his eyebrows, making Anderson giggle.

"And this reexamining, what conclusions did it lead to?" Anderson asked in a teasing tone.

"Only that five years ago we weren't heading towards just friendship. And that the same thing applies now."

Anderson grinned to himself, body crackling with the excitement of his feelings.

"I suppose," he said, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows, "in the interest of full disclosure, that I should mention my own feelings on the subject."

"It would be appreciated."

"Well, I will say that five years ago I knew exactly where we were headed and I was excited by it. And now, knowing we're going in the same direction, but with a better understanding of each other and what went wrong, I'm even more excited."

"All right people! Thirty seconds!" came Brian's voice over the slight din.

"Oh this is just going to be the most cliche thing ever," Keith complained.

"Well, you could kiss me now, before it's midnight," Anderson suggested.

"Ah, the hell with it," Keith groused as the countdown began.

"5! 4! 3! 2! 1!" Everyone cried and Anderson was swept into a movie-star kiss. Keith's lips, though thin, were certainly practiced and they took Anderson's without any fussing about. He laughed into it, but it didn't ruin it because Keith was smiling too. They broke as drunken, off-key choruses of "Auld Lang Syne" began. It wasn't perfect, but it was damn close.

Stumbling home later that night, slightly drunk and quiet, Anderson gave this turn of events the thought it deserved. He was getting better. Though there were still two very blatant reminders of what he had endured he knew they would soon be gone too. That he had taken this step with Keith was a sign of progress. He had been able to confront--admittedly not voluntarily--his demons regarding Keith. The other issues hanging on, well, they wouldn't be gone with just a good fuck--which he anticipated sometime tonight or tomorrow--but they would fade.

They would fade.


	21. Baby, You're the Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex. Among other things.

Making out against the door of his apartment without the use of his hands was a new experience for Anderson. Generally at this juncture he had at least one hand down his prospective lay's pants. Now, he was forced to simply squeeze his casts against Keith's sides because plaster on bare skin could not be pleasant. He could feel Keith fumbling with the key, even as he dedicated himself anew to exploring Anderson's entire mouth. Anderson moaned around his tongue, feeling like he was being conquered.

The lock finally clicked and they entered clumsily, backing into the hall, past the kitchen, pulling at coats, toeing off shoes.

"Well, if I had known I was getting a show tonight I wouldn't have worn my best suit," a cultured British voice said from the club chair. Anderson and Keith didn't exactly _jump_ apart, but they had whirled on their intruder so quickly that Anderson thought he could see a heat outline where they had been.

"James, what the hell?" Anderson asked. James Bond rose from the chair with a smirk. He _was_ wearing one of his best suits and a dark overcoat.

"I honestly didn't expect you to be out tonight," he said, coming forward. "I'm to deliver something before I'm off on another mission."

"What is it?" Anderson asked, curious.

"Understand this is unofficial. It will never be entered into any records but ours and the Queen's. And of course, it's not even supposed to be given to an American. But Her Majesty decided that this was a particularly different situation." James stopped and cleared his throat, taking a box from his coat pocket. "Agent Anderson Cooper, Double-O eight agent for the Secret Intelligence Service. For his gallant conduct in the Northwest Province of Pakistan on the 3rd of November, 2008. M of the Secret Intelligence Service brings the man in question to special notice for this act of gallantry."

He opened the box to reveal a shining military cross.

"The Queen has been graciously pleased to signify Her intention to confer the Decoration of the Victoria Cross on the undermentioned agent, whose claim to the same has been submitted for Her Majesty's approval, for his gallant conduct in Pakistan, as recorded against his name."

He offered the box to Keith with a smile. Anderson didn't know what to think. He knew that his part in the mission would not be known for possibly a hundred years so to be given _something_ that said "we will remember" was a little affecting.

"James, I-" he cleared his throat. "Is there some way I can thank--?"

"I'll convey your gratitude to the Queen. I'm to receive one myself," he said with a smirk.

"For rescuing me?" Anderson asked with a smile.

"Something like that," he pulled on a pair of leather gloves and made for the door. "I'll let you get back to... business," he said before disappearing.

Keith stared after him, looking bemused. "Should I ask how he got in?"

"Probably not."

"Wow, the Victoria Cross," Keith said, running his fingers lightly over the medal.

"You know it?"

"Highest honor one can receive in the British military, or so I've read."

"She must have really stretched the definition to give me one."

"I don't think the Queen of Great Britain is required to 'stretch' anything if she wants to give someone a medal."

"Even across the sea?" Anderson teased.

"Even so," Keith said snapping the box shut. He placed it on the table and then took Anderson in his arms. "Now, where were we?"

"You're seriously gonna use those tired, old lin--" his mockery was cut off by Keith's lips, not that he had a problem with that. Keith's mouth was hot and tasted like alcohol and brownies, the latter of which they'd both consumed before the walk home. Anderson licked away the taste, savoring it, trying to get to Keith. He didn't believe that mouths should taste like anything but mouths and that was sexy enough for him. He couldn't pull Keith against him the way he wanted, but Keith appeared to be making up for his lack of dexterity. His hands had latched on to Anderson's ass and was pressing Anderson against his groin with a fierceness only hinted at in his demeanor.

Anderson moaned and attempted to move, not to get away but to guide them to better territory for such dealings. Keith was agreeable with these plans and moved them quickly towards Anderson's bedroom. He could hear Molly following them, but thankfully as they reached the bedroom, Keith kicked the door shut in her face. Anderson loved his dog with all his heart and half a foot, but there was something inherently creepy about a pet watching people have sex.

As they stopped at the bed, Keith's mouth trailed from his lips down his neck, sucking lightly so as not to leave permanent marks, but simultaneously driving Anderson around the bend. His neck had always been so sensitive, rubbed smooth by starched collars and tight ties, and Keith, probably taking cues from the copious amount of encouraging noise Anderson was making, was taking advantage of it. Christ, he wanted to touch Keith so badly. Wanted to sink his fingers into his hair and hold his head to his neck. Wanted to run his hands over that strong back. Wanted to remove his clothes the way Keith had done for him for two months. Sex was all sorts of things for Anderson: stress relief, fun, a means to an end, and an expression of love. His mother had taught him that it was supposed to be that way. He hadn't looked back. Now, wanting to express the last and not being able to was frustrating. He only had his mouth.

Fortunately, Anderson was a pro with his mouth.

"Mmm, can I please, Keith, can I touch you?" Anderson asked as he was stripped naked, Keith's lips and hands seemingly everywhere at once.

"How?" Keith asked distractedly, paying particular attention now to his collar bones.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered. Keith did and with a few directions from Anderson, laid down on the bed face-up. Anderson maneuvered himself to straddle Keith's hips. Keith was big. Really big. Gorgeously, I'm-having-a-good-time-tonight, big. _Everywhere_. Balancing his weight across his legs and elbows he managed to bend down to Keith. His lips drew softly, curiously across Keith's cheeks, feeling the slight stubble. At his ear he sucked in a lobe, flicking his tongue over the tip. Under him, Keith gasped and let his hands grab Anderson's thighs. Anderson smiled and pulled the lobe through his teeth gently before continuing light kisses down his neck. At a tendon he bit, at a soft patch he sucked. Keith's erection bobbed against his, obviously well-pleased with affairs as they stood. When he reached Keith's adam's apple, nipping and sucking at it, Keith had apparently had enough and flipped them over.

"Unfair advantage," Anderson immediately said.

"Yes, and I intend to use it," Keith said. It was hot, knowing that Keith wasn't considering Anderson's current handicap as any reason to play fair. It was more Keith's style to take advantage of him. And take advantage, he did.

He ignored Anderson's neck this time, and concentrated on his chest. He bit and sucked his way ever closer to Anderson's nipples, making him frantic with need. They were already pebbled, straining for attention. But Keith bypassed them and started down Anderson's stomach. His hands ran up and down Anderson's sides, sometimes a warm press, sometimes just the barest impression of fingers that left Anderson panting and shivering. He wasn't going to last too long, he knew it. Keith lined the ring of Anderson's belly button with kisses before sliding his teeth over the sensitive lip of flesh.

"Keith," Anderson said breathlessly, hips raising but with no friction to rub against.

Keith responded to the plea by returning to Anderson's chest and taking a nipple into his mouth. Anderson cried out, chest bowing forwards, wanting to get closer. The wet hotness just about blew the top of Anderson's head off. When teeth began worrying the nipple Anderson knew he wouldn't be much longer. Each slight stab of exquisite pain went straight to his balls, which were growing closer to his body.

"Keith, _Keith_," Anderson warned, but Keith just switched sides, one hand coming to flick the much abused nipple while the other was laved and sucked. Anderson tossed his head back and forth, panting, sweat pouring from his forehead.

When a hand encircled his cock tightly, Anderson gasped and let out a stuttering moan and came hard. Keith's hand kept caressing him, rubbing his semen into his cock, now hypersensitive but still half-hard. He whimpered under the attention and sighed with disappointment and relief when Keith let go of him. His face appeared above Anderson's, looking smug and a little awestruck.

"You really are quite something to look at," he murmured, hands smoothing the skin of Anderson's torso again, soothing. He placed light kisses across Anderson's shoulders, pulling Anderson to his body as he turned them on their sides. "I thought that when I first met you. I thought 'he has no idea how lovely he is.'" A hand ran down Anderson's flank to his hip, covering it before moving to the small of Anderson's back. "It's like your body has all sort of handholds for me."

The visual, the idea, made his cock jump and he dearly wanted to put his hands on Keith and draw him in the same way Keith had done. Instead he pressed closer, soaking in Keith's furnace-like warmth. He lifted his head, silently demanding a kiss, which Keith obliged him with, showing his own urgency in the sweeping stabs of his tongue and the clenching of his fingers around Anderson's back. Anderson carefully worked one arm under Keith's so he could rest it on Keith's side. He brought up his leg and hooked it on Keith's thigh before thrusting shallowly against his groin. Keith broke off the kiss with a groan.

"Keith," Anderson said in a near-whisper. "I wish I could touch you." And that seemed to electrify Keith and he sprang into action. He rolled Anderson to his back again.

"I need you," he said candidly. Anderson couldn't help but smile. "No, I mean it, like now."

It made Anderson laugh and with one of his gimpy hands he gestured to the bedside table. Keith's movements, generally so precise, almost as elegant as his words when trying to express himself, were almost jerky, a shivering ardor making him seem like a bundle of potential energy about to explode all over Anderson. Keith wasted no time with reassurances, only slicked up his fingers and dove right in. Anderson howled as his prostate was abused mercilessly by one, two, three fingers in quick succession. He was writhing on Keith's fingers, back to the desperate desire of before. As his fingers worked inside of him, Keith laid kisses randomly, sucking in skin, as though needing to taste even the most prosaic parts of Anderson.

"Jesus, Keith, _please_," he begged. He remembered the last time he'd begged so, but would not admit the memory into the bedroom, would not sully this with that recollection. It had no meaning here, it had nothing to do with this.

'This' was currently slowly sliding inside him. Keith's eyes were screwed shut and his lip was caught between violent teeth. Anderson wanted to tell him not to be careful, to just fuck him the way he wanted to because Anderson wanted it too. But Keith was nothing if not acutely aware of time and moment and memory. He was making this first time a memory. Anderson had never really had anyone do that for him before and didn't want to screw it up.

Except for the pressing wish to come.

"Keith!" he cried out as the other man was sheathed in him entirely. His visual evaluation had underestimated Keith's size. He wanted to clench his hands--and thank God they were immobile because he might have tried--he wanted to dig his nails into Keith's back. He couldn't do these things, but he wrapped his legs around Keith, pulled him in. Keith seemed to take this as his cue, driving deep inside him, holding his hips up, changing his angle, sending Anderson into orbit with pleasure.

Keith was sweating and red, still moving slowly, establishing a rhythm. But Anderson could tell he wanted to let loose, he wanted to really fuck Anderson. Faced with that stubbornness, Anderson did the only thing he could. He squeezed down on Keith's cock and, with considerable lower body strength, thrust himself hard onto Keith.

Keith, for lack of a better word, growled, loudly and with barely-voiced expletives. But he took the hint, pulling out so only the head remained and pausing. Anderson beat his right hand lightly on the comforter and arched his back, trying to force him back in, wanting fullness and heat. Keith grinned smugly before thrusting all the way in, grazing his prostate and coring Anderson so deeply his breath caught on a gasp and he struggled for breath.

He didn't let up and every stroke, every thrust was designed to make Anderson lose all sense of self, all sense of pleasure, even. They were designed to turn him inside out so Keith could stitch his name over every part of Anderson. He didn't have the words, the thoughts, to tell Keith that he had done so from day one. And he meant the real day one, five years ago, when sitting across from a man who knew far too much about baseball to be healthy, Anderson had thought to himself 'I'd like to get to know him. Find out if he knows about more than statistics and clever quips.'

Their rhythm quickened and Keith was kissing him, wet, hot, grasping kisses that Anderson was panting into.

"Wrap your arms around me, Andy," Keith said breathlessly.

"My casts," Anderson tried to protest.

"Do you think I care?" Keith growled. Without further comment, Anderson wrapped his arms, as best he could, around Keith's broad shoulders. He flexed, forcing his arms to stay there, inadvertently bringing Keith closer. His erection dragged against Keith's stomach and he was so close, his legs were beginning to shake. His eyes blinked quickly and his mouth fell open.

"Keith, Keith, I'm--"

"Come on, Anderson," Keith said lowly, only increasing his tempo. Anderson's climax hit him only moments later, his mind, his body, everything falling apart as he cried out in satisfaction.

He supposed Keith must have come afterwards, but he was so lightheaded, so very focused on the pleasure Keith had wreaked in him, that he didn't even notice. Keith, courteously, did not collapse on Anderson, but held himself up long enough to pull out and dispose of the condom before flopping with a heartfelt groan onto the bed. Anderson would have laughed if his body wasn't still wracked with bolts and tingles of pleasure.

"I don't want to seem coarse, but kid, that was quite possibly the best fuck I've ever had," Keith said, sounding winded.

"On that point, Mr. Olbermann, I must agree."

*****

The next morning, during their usual ritual, Anderson told Keith about his New Years Resolution. Keith had responded with laughter. Anderson, using his newly discovered power against him, pouted. Keith immediately quieted down.

"But seriously," he commented. "You become Mr. Well-Adjusted and your fans aren't going to like you so much."

"Well, I still kill people for another government," Anderson countered.

"So, what? You're going to drop hints about your double life at the next fashion show?" That one earned Keith a well-deserved glare. Which he ignored.

"I mean, I've still got plenty of other issues. My psychiatrist--"

"Thought he was a psychologist?"

"Honest to God, I don't give a damn, Keith. Anyway, my shrink is only around until the more recent issues are resolved," Anderson said.

"And you don't think your more recent issues have anything to do with your past issues?"

"Yeah, but MI-6 doesn't so much care about those," his grin was cheeky, and Anderson could see the smile Keith was fighting.

"I still think all the stuff about me is disturbing."

"Well, it was, but I believe we've found the cure for that," Anderson said.

"And what would that be?"

"Doses of your cock, at least once a day or as needed." That elicited a genuine laugh which made his toes tingle. He rarely made Keith laugh like that so it was all the sweeter when he got one out of him. "And going back to the original point," he continued, "while I believe the horse has pretty much left the barn, I'll be ready to come out whenever you are." It was something of an ultimatum, a reminder of past issues between them. But it was something Anderson needed from Keith.

"Let's give ourselves awhile, huh?" Keith said, looking uncertain. "I, like you, think the ship has pretty much sailed, but I'd like to have you myself for awhile before your hordes start leaving voodoo dolls on my doorstep."

"I agree," Anderson giggled.

"Change of subject--"

"You needed to make an announcement?"

"Just giving fair warning. I was thinking of inviting Rachel and Susan for dinner tonight, but as this is your apartment it seemed prudent to ask first."

"You don't think Rachel is nursing a major hangover?"

"Rachel doesn't get hangovers. Or at least not very bad ones. She has a secret, but she won't tell me what it is."

"Then that sounds great," Anderson said. That was another thing they'd have to navigate. They had been and would be for a bit longer, all up in each other's space. What would happen when the casts came off? Would Keith just mosey on home and they'd continue... dating? Most couples--good Lord he hated that word--didn't live together and _then_ date.

Keith, in all his love--or loathing--of cliches would say that they had never been "most couples."

"I'd invite the Wonder Twins and their wives, but frankly I don't feel like cooking that much food."

"I wish I could help."

"Oh believe me, Cooper, the minute those casts come off you owe me sponge-baths, meals, massages--"

"Been keeping a running tally?"

"You're damn right I have."


	22. Epilogue: The Spy Who Loved Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith gets in the final word. Although not literally.

Two months ago, Anderson had gotten his casts off. They had celebrated with physical therapy, dinner in a restaurant, and a whole lot of liquor. Rachel and Susan had joined them for dinner and Rachel had made appropriately gross remarks about the pale, skeletal look of Anderson's hands, particularly about how they would look around Keith's cock. Thankfully, that had made Anderson laugh--that stupid laugh that made Keith just smile larger--while Keith had flushed fiery red and flicked her ear in retaliation.

Now, Anderson's hands looked much healthier. They were regaining color and strength. Keith sometimes caught Anderson just running his fingertips over things--Molly's silky coat, the fine leather of the club chair, and best of all, his own body. He caught Anderson in the shower, soapy finger trailing over each limb, each plane of his body slowly, gently as if he were reading his body instead of washing it. The first time he saw it it had made Keith step into the shower and fuck him against the wall.

"I should be ready for active duty in another two months," Anderson was saying as Keith entered the apartment that night. They had come to an unspoken agreement that Keith wouldn't leave when Anderson no longer had need of him as a personal slave. Keith had installed himself in Anderson's bedroom after that first night and while they still tended to annoy one another on a regular basis, it was quite a bit less caustic than it had been.

He entered the kitchen and saw Anderson standing over a pot of something that made Keith's mouth water, talking on his Blackberry. He was obviously on the line with M and the pronouncement he'd walked in on gave Keith pause. He waited until Anderson hung up and got Keith a beer--giddily twisting off the cap for him.

"So, active duty?" Keith asked as casually as could manage. Anderson sent him a cautious look.

"Yeah, I had appointments with both my shrink and physical therapist today. Dr. Crothers is fairly sure I'm ready for active duty already and Misty says another two months for optimum strength and movement. Of course, I won't be assigned immediately."

"What will you do?"

"I'll have to get re-certified on all weapons, hand-to-hand, and the obligatory pile-up of paperwork that they expect Double-Os to do in their free time. Mostly to keep us from going off the deep end, though they chose a strange activity for that particular goal," Anderson said as he served up two bowls of stew.

They sat to eat, silently, and crunching through a piece of bread Anderson sent him another cautious look.

"What?" Keith almost snapped.

"We haven't really talked about this," Anderson ventured.

"The whole spy thing?"

"Well, yes."

Keith let himself a few moments of honest reflection, which it seemed he always was doing where Anderson was concerned. He was a little... worried about the whole double-life shebang that Anderson had going on. Only a month after learning about it he'd seen Anderson practically ripped to shreds in the pursuit of a mission.

"It would be fair to say that some of it alarms me," he said.

"I should tell you," Anderson winced, "that Double-Os aren't known for having a very long life-expectancy." That kind of bald honesty, something Anderson had kept blind-siding him with since New Year's, made Keith flinch. "No matter how good we are, and we are the best Keith, sometimes..."

"The odds aren't in your favor."

"Pretty much," his lover responded quietly.

"I'm not going to say 'stop,'" Keith told him. And he wouldn't. No matter that he was too old for this shit, to be worrying about someone coming home. No matter that the thought of Anderson with a gun in his hand kind of made him ill. It was part of Anderson and Keith was pretty sure he was supposed to love all Anderson's parts. He loved most of them already.

"Good, because I wasn't going to," Anderson said and that made Keith smile. _That_ was a part he especially liked. Despite the sometimes hang-dog appearance or pout, Anderson was not one to roll over or get run over. It was the same kind of dogged stubbornness and determination that had not only gotten him to Double-O, but into news. It made him particularly well suited for Keith and the kind of bullshit he tended to put his lovers through.

"It doesn't mean that I won't--" he stopped himself, the sentimental words souring in his mouth.

Anderson was smiling indulgently at him. He hated indulgent smiles.

"Let me guess, you would be... put out if I were to come back in pieces," Anderson said. Keith almost growled at the banter, because he was concerned. But how the _fuck_ was he supposed to tell Anderson that?

Before he even registered himself moving he had Anderson crowded against the counter. The other man's eyes were wide, his hands clutching at the edge. Keith placed his own hands over the still recovering appendages, warming them, allowing himself to calm.

"It bothers me, Anderson," he said softly.

"I know," Anderson answered equally as soft. He was looking Keith straight in the eye, looking completely serious. "But it's what I am."

"I know that too," Keith said resignedly.

*****

"This color is going to look absurd on you," Keith commented as they passed into the bathroom. He looked down at the box of copper hair dye in his hand and snorted to himself.

"Well at least I won't have to self-tan again," Anderson told him with a grimace.

"That tan you had for the first few weeks was pretty hilarious," Keith said, remembering how he thought it was strange that Anderson was becoming so pale so quickly and then realizing it was sunless tanner. "So what do you want me to do? You've done this like a thousand times by yourself."

"Well you can mix a little of the red with that blond," Anderson said, nodding his head toward the line of products in the bathroom closet. "For my eyebrows. It'll save time. And you can keep me company," he said with a sweet smile.

"While choking on the noxious fumes of your hair treatment," Keith said with a sniff, but did what Anderson asked. He took one of the used bottles, put a dollop of both red and blond dye in it and mixed according to Anderson's directions as he prepared to do his head. "So this is a spy's idea as a bonding activity?"

"I pretty much thought the sex was our bonding activity," Anderson snarked and Keith gave him a sharp thwop on his ass. The other man yelped but laughed as well.

When they were done, Keith debated making fun of the shower cap on Anderson's head, but the man was going through his firearms, so he decided to refrain.

"They're allowing you to carry guns on the plane?"

"These are going on another plane under another name," Anderson explained, checking bullets and cleaning barrels. "Make yourself useful," he said, tossing Keith a cartridge-less gun and oiled cloth. Keith, though uncomfortable holding the gun, immediately began mimicking Anderson's actions.

"So, Russia?" Keith asked.

"That's what they tell me. I'll make a stop in London to get my materials, then off to Moscow."

"It's cold there."

"Generally."

"You'll be gone for your birthday."

Anderson paused in his reloading. "You didn't have anything planned, did you?" He sounded more suspicious than anything.

"Dinner with friends maybe," Keith shrugged. He really hadn't had anything planned, he knew Anderson didn't care for those kinds of celebrations. Christmas was usually a casual affair for him, he'd told Keith. He'd spend a little time with his mom, go home and do work. Thanksgiving wasn't celebrated and New Years was generally spent in a flurry until the 5th had passed. He'd never been in a relationship long enough or serious enough for it to matter.

"Well, we can do that when I get back. It'll be nice," Anderson said and he sounded like he was making a concession. Amazingly enough it was Keith that mostly tried to get them out to restaurants and art shows and things. Anderson was easy to get to a concert--especially big anonymous ones--but other places he seemed to shy away from.

"This sort of thing is, well, not exactly rare in my line of work," he'd told Keith one evening after they came home from an exclusive art show. "I appreciate the effort, but..." he'd shrugged.

Keith had backed off then. More home-cooked meals, bad TV, and movies they missed in theaters seemed to make Anderson happiest. Having friends over was also acceptable so long as there weren't too many.

"How you feeling about this mission?" Keith asked. It would be his first kill being back on the job. He had done some easy information running in Egypt a few weeks before, to ease him back in.

"Should be fairly straight-forward," Anderson shrugged. "My first mission as a Double-O was unique, generally they're more like this one."

"Neat kills?"

"The moves of the target have already been heavily detailed. I just have to be at the right place at the right time with a pretty sniper rifle," he told Keith, holding up said rifle. "Very little contact, very little chance of being caught." He leaned over and kissed Keith's cheek, dry lips only leaving a vague impression of moisture. "Very little chance of getting hurt."

Keith would never admit that that made him feel better.

*****

"Plenty of socks?"

"Yes."

"Plenty of long underwear?"

"Don't think it's that cold, but I know you snuck a pair in."

"Plenty of guns?"

"I pretty much think I'll just need the one, but sweet of you to insist on the Walther PP9 and the .357 Magnum."

"Just making sure you're prepared."

"It's sweet."

"Stop saying that."

"Sure."

Keith swept his lover into a deep kiss, raising him off the ground so the other man had to fumble for a hold around Keith's neck. For minutes he kept him there before setting him down.

"Take care, kid."

"Always."


End file.
